


Love and Other Deadly Sins

by magnificent



Series: Love and Other Deadly Sins [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Humor, Cute, F/M, Fluff, LW is a tsundere, Novelette, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-18 14:14:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8164762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnificent/pseuds/magnificent
Summary: Lone Wanderer and Charon's relationship has an awkward beginning.





	1. Sky

I... I remember how the world looked the first time I stepped outside. There was the rush of hot wind, an acrid taste in my mouth... blood on my hands. This feeling of terror and joy, seeing a pale blue ceiling that stretched into eternity, as if I were looking into heaven itself. It didn't seem real to me then, this alien world, especially not after the men I had grown up with had nearly beaten me to death, with their corpses bleeding out and cooling on the Vault floor, some yards back in the depths of the earth.

I still look up at the sky and marvel at it, sometimes, when I'm not getting shot at or back down beneath the dirt, deep in the godforsaken metro tunnels or deeper yet, in dark caves and hidden chambers filled with unspeakable monsters. It's got this lonely feel to it. I think that the sky is the closest thing to a god that I've got anymore. Especially amusing, since I was chosen to be chaplain of Vault 101. But after the things I've seen, after what I've done, it's hard for me to believe.

“Anything else, Helena?” comes a tentative voice.

I sigh. “Fill me up, Gob,” I say, and slide my glass towards the bartender. I watch him with a surly expression. He's taking his time with this one, giving me a quick glance as he reopens the bottle of scotch. I know I get into a foul mood when I'm drunk, and although I'm not awful enough to take it out on a slave, I think my moodiness bothers him. Pretty sure his slow service is a subtle way of telling me to take it easy for once.

I was never an alcoholic when I was in the Vault. Alcohol was just something stupid the boys did, something Amata had tried on her eighteenth birthday, with the permission of her father. I'd never even tasted it until I came outside. It's awful stuff, but it makes my brain slow down enough that I don't have to think about _why_ I'm sad or angry or hurting. I just _am,_ and that's easier for some reason.

I drain the scotch and lean back. “Guess that's it for tonight,” I say, and Gob relaxes. The room is blurred around the edges, but that's nothing unusual. “Hey, you said your mom's name was Carol, right?”

He brightens up. “Yes, I did. She lives in the Underworld, remember? Did you end up visiting after all?”

“No,” I say, “but I think I will soon. Tired of seeing nothing but this old town.”

“You're hardly ever here,” Gob scoffs.

“Well, tired of this being the only town I'm ever in,” I amend. “Arefu's goddamn depressing, and Bigtown's security system makes me nervous.”

“The robots,” Gob says.

“Mm. Wish there were more than two. If enough Muties hit them at the same time, those guys will be junked again, and the town will be gone.”

“Hey,” Gob says, laying a hand on my own, “Don't be so hard on yourself. You're only one person. And a good one, for sure. After all, you're one of the only people in Megaton to be decent to me.”

I think back to the first time I'd met him; honestly, I'd thought he was some kind of monster, especially with how he was banging on the radio. But... after a few minutes of talking with him... _Near as I can tell, we age slower than you. A lot slower. There are even a few Ghouls that were alive during the war. Of course, with a face like ground Brahmin meat, you can imagine that folks don't take too kindly to us._ And my own long, cautious pause: _You know, it's not so bad._

I guess that was what sold him on me. His mistake. I might have been slated to be a chaplain based on the results of my GOAT, but I'm nowhere holy.

“You said you'd stop,” Gob states. I realize that I've been staring at my empty glass of scotch.

“Ah, right,” I say, standing up. The room wobbles slightly. Gob reaches out to steady me, and in the corner to my left, Nova uncrosses her arms.

“Need any help getting back?”

“No,” I say, “I'm fine.”

Both of them look at me with doubt, although Nova is smirking. I'm sure they're both thinking of last Thursday; I'd left the bar piss-drunk and Doc Church found me sprawled on the ground next to the nuke. You know what he'd called me? _Female Jericho._ Honestly, not something I want to be known for. I have my limits.

“I can hold my drink,” I say with irritation. “That was just once.”

“Better watch yourself,” Nova says, her sultry voice going lower. “Enough nights next to that bomb, and Megaton will have two ghouls on our hands.”

“Hah,” I say sarcastically. “Aren't you witty tonight.”

“Something has to keep my customers interested,” Nova says. “Hey, when are you going to treat me to some of your time? I bet us girls could talk about all sorts of things by ourselves.”

She's got her arms crossed under her boobs, showing off the long line of cleavage. I avert my eyes. Lesbianism was an unknown concept to me in the Vault, and although I don't dislike the attention, I don't think I'm interested in girls.

“Maybe another time,” I say, strapping my ammo belt around my waist. “God, was this thing always so heavy? Damn.”

Muttering to myself, I stumble out of the saloon and make my way down the hill... and back up to my house near the gates. I know, technically, it was the only unoccupied house in Megaton, but I still think that if someone else was living there, Lucas Simms would have moved them out and put me there instead. I think he likes having a capable fighter right at the entrance—and someone that he can count on, not that useless drunk Jericho.

Well. I'm a drunk too, but at least I can usually shoot straight after a few beers.

I dodge past Wadsworth, who's awkwardly hovering in front of the staircase as usual, and collapse onto my bed.

The bottom drawer of the filing cabinet is permanently open, and that's where I drop my guns: a laser pistol from my left hip, a 10mm pistol from my right, and my darling M1 Garand from my back. Most of my leather armor ends up on the floor. I belch as I roll over and taste my own breath. _Rank._ God. What a life. It's been six months since I last saw my father, and I honestly doubt that he would recognize me.

 

I wake up with the worst goddamn headache I've had in a month.

I groan and spit, narrowly missing my clothes heaped on the floor. I do not want to get up. I do not want to look at the sunlight. And I sure as hell don't want to walk back through the metro and find some shitty ghetto just to say hi to Gob's mom.

But I promised him that I'd go soon, and when I say 'soon', I intend to go as soon as possible. Out here in the wastes, lots of stuff can trip you up and make you turn back—disease, raiders, dangerous beasts, radiation. Sometimes what you think might be a simple day trip turns into a week-long foray as you systematically root out all threats in the area, or else scout a path around them.

When I was fresh out of the Vault, I made the mistake of telling Lucy that I'd get a message to her brother in Arefu. It took me forever to finally get there, and I can't even count the number of times I nearly died forging a path. About half-way there I was spotted by five raiders and I was only saved from them by squeezing into the crevice of a rock formation. From then on I made sure I could always see all around me, and not blindly walk out in the open. Getting shot at from an unknown location is a real bitch.

Wadsworth is buzzing around downstairs as I'm pulling on the last of my gear. He's running his morning routines of sweeping and cleaning—not that the house really ever needs it. As Gob had said before, I'm not in town often. Most of the time I find myself sleeping in abandoned encampments in the metro.

“Good morning, madam,” Wadsworth says. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Mm... no. If anyone comes in looking for me, tell them I'll be back in two days at best, about one week at worst.”

“Very good, madam,” the machine replies. I close the door behind me without locking it. No one in town is stupid enough to go scrounging around in my house.

Now, judging by the metro map I'd picked up a few months ago, it should take about three or four hours to walk to Underworld, provided I don't run into any trouble... Unlikely. Most of the metro up until the last hour of the trip should be mostly cleared of ghouls and raiders though, so a decent estimation would be five hours of walking. Not too bad. Less than my planned maximum energy expenditure. If I do too much in one day, it totally wrecks my muscles and forces me to use extra, invaluable stimpaks. I like to do about a maximum of nine hours of work per day.

I give Lucas Simms a nod as I leave town, slinging my pack over my shoulders. A cool twenty pound bag is the most I can manage, since my ammo belt weighs at least fifteen, not including the pistols, and my M1 Garand is about fifteen pounds. However, I tend to double the weight by the return trip. I'm lucky that I was born broad-shouldered, I guess.

I'm curious about this city of ghouls. Town sizes get exaggerated out in the wastes, but I'm hoping it's actually really large—I mean, for instance, Bigtown doesn't exactly live up to its name, does it? It's barely a fort. Yeah, yeah, I know it's because it's where the kids from Little Lamplight get sent, but still.

A part of me that is my father's daughter is deeply interested in seeing how this race of people lives. The scientist in me is eager for them to thrive, develop culture, and establish themselves. Anyone with a basic education knows that diversity is the key to survival, and these freaks of nature, so resistant to the deadliness of radiation, just might be the only survivors in a few hundred years.

Besides, I do like Gob. I hope that his family is nice.

 

By the time I shove past the metro gate into the heart of DC, it's late afternoon, with the sun hovering near the horizon, red and hazy. I take a deep breath of dusty air. What's in the air? How much radiation am I breathing in right now? Am I smelling the sourness of Mutie sweat, noticeable from fifteen yards away, or is it just the rot of buried corpses?

The Garand is resting on my shoulder as I scan the surroundings. I usually give myself a few minutes in the stairwell of the metro entrance before leaving. I've caught a few nasties by surprise from waiting long enough.

 _Nothing._ I make a quiet dash for the side of the nearest building and wait for my ammo belt to stop jangling. _Damn it. So much for stealth._

But nothing looks like it's been alerted to my presence. About a half a mile away, I think I see a Mutie making his rounds. More scum to clear out later. Not sure if I want to take the risk by opening fire on sight though. I guess I'll ask the locals later.

I take another glance at my metro map. According to this, the Museum should be nearby, and evidently that's where the ghouls hide out. I wonder, if ghouls are so hated by people, and used as slaves, why doesn't anyone clean the place out? Unless there really are that many of them in there.

After another half hour of extreme caution, I make it down the few blocks to the museum, and then freeze with my back pressed flat against a building. _Was that a footstep, or..._

I wait for many long minutes, and then I hear the scuff of leather shoes on grit. Someone's definitely pacing a few yards away from me. Who? Talon Merc? Muties? Slavers?

Taking a deep breath, I glance around the corner... _Huh? Nothing?_ In surprise, I step out and immediately there's a woman right in front of me, as if she'd slunk out of the wall.

“Jesus Christ!” I snarl, instinctively raising my rifle. Just as fast her pistol is leveled at my chest.

“Don't think I've been called that before,” the woman says. Her voice rasps, but I think it would have been pretty if it weren't scarred by radiation. “But they say there's a first time for everything. Welcome to the Mall, tourist.”

“Sorry,” I say, and I lower my weapon. “You're like a goddamn shadow, you know that? Hey, is Underworld nearby?”

“You're already here,” the ghoul says, smiling now, a little. “It's right inside the Museum of History, then through the big skull. Most of the residents ain't crazy about humans, but they'll sell to you, fix you up, so long as your caps are good. And you ain't a Ghoul hater.”

“Nah,” I say. “I'm actually here as a favor for one. Think that'll gain me any favor with the locals?”

“Depends on the favor,” the ghoul says, looking at me up and down. “And the ghoul.”

“Guy named Gob. Friend of mine.”

“Then you'll want to talk to Carol,” the ghoul says. “I'm Willow, by the way.”

“Helena. It's nice to meet you.”

“Mhm,” Willow says, and then her milky-blue eyes turn towards the road. I take that as my signal to head in.

Honestly, I prefer people to be overly friendly than not. I'm a rather gruff person myself, but due to a lack of friends in the Vault, I've found myself really enjoying being around people like Gob and Nova. I guess people are way less likely to make fun of you when you've got three guns and a body count northwards of three dozen, but still. My memories of being bullied by Butch and his friends—even Amata sometimes—aren't going to fade quickly.

There's a familiar pang in my chest as I think about Jonas, lying dead in the Vault, and Dad. _God, I miss him._

And in the darkness of the Museum, a skull looms. _Willow wasn't kidding. Go in through the skull?_ Here I was expecting some kind of hidden passageway, going through the skeleton of one of those big-ass dinosaurs and squeezing down into a rough-hewn tunnel. This is downright _majestic._ In a creepy sort of way.

Something of this place reminds me of when I first saw the sky.

“Oh, well would you look at that? We got us a smoothskin visitor! Hoooeeee, we ain't seen one of your type in a long time.”

I grit my teeth into a forced smile as a ghoul approaches me. _Smoothskin._ I'd been startled when Gob had first called me that, but I've never asked him to stop. To me, though, it seems to be a bit derogatory.

“Hello,” I say calmly, and attempt a genuine smile. _There's nothing to be gained by being rude._ “I'm planning on visiting for the evening. Are... are humans allowed to stay overnight?”

The ghoul raises his eyebrows. “Why, of course, missy! You think we'd toss you out into the streets as soon as it hits eleven? With the Muties out a'hunting?”

I smile and shrug awkwardly.

“That's not the way we work down here,” he says firmly. “If you're needin' a place to lay your head, you'll want to visit Carol's Place. And if you can't afford the rent, you're always welcome to set your pack down in the hall and take a nap right here. There's no one that would bother with you. My name's Winthrop, if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” I say. “Better hospitality than I usually get. I'm actually here because of Gob.”

“Wait, you know Gob?”

“Friend of mine,” I explain. “He's working up in Megaton.”

“Megaton! Way up there?” Winthrop pauses, reminiscing. “I always did wonder what happened to that boy. When he disappeared, I just figured it was the Super Mutants what got him. Good to know that he's doin' okay. You should stop by and see his ma over at Carol's place. She'll be happy to hear some news about him.”

“Just what he asked me to do,” I say.

Winthrop smiles. It's a ghastly expression, but filled with warmth. “Then you go right ahead. I won't keep you any longer. Enjoy your stay!”

I spend a few minutes wandering the hall. I've got quite a few caps on me, but I like to save money where I can. I'm seeing a few good places to rest up, but there's too many ghouls around for my liking... who knows what hours they keep, and I wouldn't sleep well with a bunch of strangers milling around nearby.

I'm disappointed by their numbers, but I guess ghouls are somewhat rare anyway. From what Gob has said to me, and from what other Megaton residents have muttered, it sounds like they're often killed because of their resemblance to the feral ghouls. There's a lot of worry about Gob going feral someday, and no one likes to have them nearby. Seems like the general consensus is that if he does go mad anytime soon, it'll be Moriarty's fault.

I take in the sounds for awhile longer... and the smells. There's a strong odor in this hall, which I'd noticed faintly on Gob, cutting through the scents of alcohol: serous drainage, the wet and sticky clear fluid that oozes from infected wounds. With this many ghouls gathered together, all with their peeling skin, blisters, and burns...

I wrinkle my nose as I head upstairs. Radiation may give ghouls long lives, but it certainly doesn't make them healthy.

“The Ninth Circle,” I read aloud as I pause by the first door on my left. I can faintly hear a radio playing inside, ghouls murmuring. A woman in a pre-war dress passes by. I jerk my head towards the sign. “Good place?”

She shakes her head quickly and averts her eyes. _Huh._ My guess is they're either some kind of merc group, or maybe... some kind of ghoul church, kind of like the Children of Atom? That's an interesting thought.

I take a moment to adjust myself before I walk in. _Come on, Helena. Use your very best manners, and maybe you'll hear something interesting._ I'll admit that I'm a curious person. Everything that I ever knew about the world was pre-War knowledge. There's a lot to learn out in the wastes, and an awful lot of secrets.

“Fuck you too, man!” The door flies open and bangs against the wall. An unsteady ghoul rushes out and clips me as he dashes by, knocking me on my ass.

“Ow!” I shake my head and blink back tears. _Damn, right on my tailbone._ And here I was going to go in there trying to look dignified _and_ tough. Now I was neither.

I scramble to my feet and give a quick smile to the first ghoul I see, a guy about a foot taller than anyone else I've ever seen in the Wastes—anyone more or less human, anyway. He's probably a little northwards of six and a half feet. “He could have at least said sorry, right?”

He doesn't smile back. Or reply. Instead, he lifts his chin slightly as he stares down at me.

 _Talk about testosterone overload,_ I grumble to myself. Whatever. A quick glance to my left shows a few ghouls sitting alone, each staring down, lost in their own worlds. “Hey, what is this place, anyway?”

“Talk to Ahzrukhal,” the ghoul growls.

I take in his dark brown leather armor, the stock of the shotgun slung over his back. A merc? Geez. “Listen, I just-”

“Talk. To. Ahzrukhal.”

I purse my lips and turn my back. Fine, if that's how it is. There _are_ people who don't like conversation, anyway. And it could just be that he hates humans. I've already met a ghoul like that, Barrett, the bodyguard of the ultrajet chemist. Just seems stupid to me, with them having been originally been human anyway.

I scan the room, and this time I see a ghoul bent over checking his stock of liquor.

“That your guy in the corner there?” I ask instead of a greeting.

The ghoul lifts his head in surprise. “Well now, lookee here. We got us a smoothskin that I ain't ever seen before. Man in the corner is Charon. I'm Ahzrukhal, and this... this is the Ninth Circle.”

“Cute,” I say, and Ahzrukhal quirks an eyebrow. “Yeah, I get it. _Divine Comedy_. Underworld, creepy gatekeeper.”

“Aha,” Ahzrukhal smiles, “A woman of education.”

“Yeah, well. I'm fresh out of a Vault.” I hesitate for a second, wondering how much I should tell him. “And we had a lot of books. So if he's Charon, why aren't you named Hades?”

The ghoul's smile thins. “I've had this name for over a century, smoothskin. Charon's name was changed when he entered my service.”

“Wow. You changed his name just to suit the city's theme? His own must have been pretty shitty, huh?”

“Nn... Let's just say... well, he's a loyal employee. Now, what can I get for you?” Ahzrukhal leans in over the bar.

“Got any scotch?”

“Of course.” I watch the ghoul's blistered hands as he fills the base of a heavy glass. He's deft and practiced, moving with a sense of balance and pride. It's relaxing to watch him. Unlike Gob, he is confident and aware of my attention, each movement a performance. A very good bartender indeed.

“Here you go.”

“Thanks.” I take a long swallow, and let the slow burn crawl down my throat and into my stomach. “Pretty good stuff. What's the price per dram?”

“One cap, or twenty for the entire bottle.”

I choke on a mouthful. “What the fuck?”

“Easy there,” the ghoul says.

“ _Twenty_ caps?”

Ahzrukhal doesn't blink. “Caravans haven't come through in awhile. I've had to send Charon out a few times per month to pick up my stock outside of Rivet City. And fewer caravans means higher prices. Those bastards are charging me more too. I'm afraid that this is the lowest price I can manage, my dear.”

“Bull _shit,”_ I growl. We stare down for a few moments, and then his ice-blue eyes shift a little to my right.

Back in the darkest corner of the bar, Charon coughs.

“I'll take the whole bottle,” I say.

Ahzrukhal smiles, and shakes his head a fraction of an inch. “Very good, my friend. How long are you staying in Underworld? If you wish, I will set it aside for you to finish over the course of your stay.”

“Nah.” I drain the glass and gesture for a refill. “I'm not staying that long. And hey, fill that up higher. Half-way. Yeah, that's good.”

I drop twenty caps and then say, “So what was the deal with that jackass that left in a huff earlier?”

Ahzrukhal frowns, pulling leathery skin taut over his cheekbones. “Unfortunately, not everyone is as amicable about the price hike.”

“No shit,” I say. “That's over double what I pay in Megaton.”

He nods. “Yes, yes, my friend, I did double my price over the past few months. If I could go back to the days when we had a caravan stop by once per month...”

He trails off.

I tap my glass, and sigh. _Lord have mercy._ The labors I do for love... “You know, I could go talk to someone the next time they're down at Rivet City. Find out why they're not coming.”

“Ah?” Ahzrukhal's stare remains locked onto me. “Why might you do that? As you can see, with the bar on hard times, I can hardly afford to pay you...”

“As a favor,” I clarify. “And as a fellow lover of all things alcoholic.”

“That's... very generous of you,” Ahzrukhal says, sounding almost amazed. With how greasy his mannerism are, I think he's startled that he's getting something without having to wheedle it out of me. I have no doubt that he's been convincing people to do different things for him for a long, long time. Unlike Gob, Ahzrukhal doesn't strike me as a good person, but I quite like his voice and his bar, even if he seems untrustworthy.

“Mm,” I say. “Another half glass, please.”

I spend the next few minutes in silence. Ahzrukhal has retreated to the other side of the bar to tend to his other customers and to shoot me suspicious looks, as if he doesn't quite believe that I was serious. I make short work of the scotch and wait for the buzz to finally kick in. _Damn, it takes longer and longer for this stuff to have an effect on me._ I wonder if I should try to cut back for a few days, lose some tolerance for it. The psychological withdrawal would be hell though.

Something seems off, though. I begin to place it, when a woman steps in—the only people to even glance at her are myself, the bartender, and Charon.

I steal a glance at the ghoul at the table to my right, and then give up and stare openly. He's not drinking, not speaking, not blinking. A line of drool is running from the corner of his mouth as he stares into open space.

 _Ah._ So _that's_ why this place seems a little sleazy. Looks like ol' Azzie's selling Jet on the sly.

I slide off my seat, leaving the empty bottle on the bar, and sit down across from the high ghoul. “Hey bud. You look like you're deep in thought, what's going on?”

His eyes strain to focus on me. “Ahh...”

 _Hm. Or, maybe Ultrajet._ I think of Murphy and Barrett. I haven't gotten a chance to buy any Ultrajet, nor do I think I want to. Jet's hallucinogenic enough so as it is.

Besides, I run well enough on scotch alone.

“What are you doing?” Ahzrukhal sounds angry.

“Oh, you know. Chatting it up with the locals,” I slur, my voice overly loud. The scotch has gone to my head, but I don't feel especially motivated to control myself. “You know what this guy's doing?”

“Keep it down,” Ahzrukhal hisses.

“I hope so,” I say, ignoring him. “I've heard it's pretty hard to kill a ghoul, but this might be getting close, huh? Where are you at, buddy? 2059? 2073? Maybe a different country, too.”

Ahzrukhal lays his palm flat down on the table as he leans in. “While there is no law in Underworld, per se, I'd rather not end up at the receiving end of an angry lynch mob. People here are already looking for excuses.” He glances over his shoulder at the young ghoul who is now sitting at the bar, watching us with obvious interest. He lowers his voice again. “So if you would kindly quiet yourself, and not bother my other customers, then I'll allow you to stay. Otherwise...”

Charon is already standing a few feet away.

I sigh and stand up, a little wobbly. “My apologies,” I say. “I'll behave. Just tryin' to make conversation.”

I return to my seat at the bar, and Ahzrukhal serves the woman beside me, still eyeing me. “I'm not sure if I should believe your promise to help my caravan problem...”

“It wasn't a promise,” I say. “Another bottle of scotch?”

Ahzrukhal only puts it down after I've paid.

“But yes,” I say, “I do wanna take care of it. Ya know, I've studied everything I could in the Vault. Physics, science, religion, medicine, history, business... as far as I see it, business is the best way to keep this world going. So if people like me can take care of problems for people like you, then stuff starts to get moving again.”

I pause and look at the ghoul beside me. “So what's your poison?”

“I prefer beer,” she says.

“Swill,” I correct. “Whatever. It's on me.”

She smiles prettily, a remarkable feat for someone who only has the remnants of lips. “Are you sure?”

“Six caps.”

“Aw, shit,” I say, and slide them across to the bartender. “You're paying too much for—urp—sorry, 'cuse me, paying too much for watered down garbage. Well. _I'm_ paying too much. Heh.”

The lady drains the bottle, then looks at me with a devious smile.

“Aha! You tryin' to start something?” I throw out six more caps. “How about this: if you can outdrink me, I'll pay for everything you buy tonight. And if I outdrink you, then you'll pay for me.”

“Hmm,” she says. “Don't you know that ghouls have notoriously strong tolerances?”

“So do I,” I reply, “when it comes to alcohol, anyway. I'm feeling lucky. How about it?”

“You've got yourself a deal,” the ghoul says, grinning. “Hey, you're not so bad for a smoothskin. Not so... uptight. I can't say that I've ever been treated to anything by a human before.”

“Yeah? Huh.”

“My name's Gaja,” she says.

“Helena. Uh, don't know if this is a rude question or not, but how old are you? Can never tell with ghouls.”

“Fifty,” Gaja says. “I became a ghoul twenty-eight years ago.”

“Not too bad,” I say. “I feel like most of you guys are pretty old. Little bit dis... sconse.... disconcerting.”

“I'm the youngest ghoul in Underworld,” she agrees. “Another guy here used to have that title, but he disappeared some years back.”

“Shit!” I say, standing up, and nearly fall over backwards. Gaja catches my wrist. “Carol! You know where Carol's Place is?”

Ahzrukhal, for some reason, glares at me.

“Across the balcony,” Gaja says, with a little smile.

“The young ghoul,” I say. “Gob, right?”

“How'd you know?”

“He's, I guess, my best friend,” I say. “Shit, I got distracted. He asked me to come down here to check on his mom... the instant I see a bar, I just...”

“Hmm,” Ahzrukhal says, still looking irritated.

“Carol's Place is competition for the Ninth Circle,” Gaja whispers. “Bit of a sore subject.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” I say. “Can't leave yet anyway. We've got a contest to finish.”

“Isn't it already about there?” Gaja asks. “I'm not quite caught up to your amount of pure alcohol, but I think you're probably finished pretty soon.”

“I'm not done,” I insist, “until I'm black-out drunk. Trust me. I've fought Super Mutants with more booze than blood in my veins.”

Gaja laughs, but I don't think she quite understands exactly what I mean. Very occasionally I'll manage two bottles of scotch in twenty-four hours. When I fight, though, I drink like a fish, and during a particularly drawn-out battle with Super Mutants I put down three bottles. I woke up two days later in a ditch and missing half my clothes. Bruised, scratched, missing a tooth, and shot in the arm, sure, but I was alive.

“If you say so,” Gaja says. “Well, you heard her, Ahzrukhal. Might as well start lining them up, I've got... uh... at least eleven more beers to go.”

 

Needless to say, it's not much longer when I reach my limit. I fall in and out of consciousness, seeing only flashes of my own actions—laughing with Gaja, talking with Ahzrukhal. His sharp eyes stand out to me, bright coins in a dirty bar. By this time Gaja is helping me count my money as I buy her beer after beer.

“You're—hic—right,” she says. “Long time since I've been this drunk.”

“If you're sober enough to speak,” Ahzrukhal says, his glinting eyes moving between us,“then you're far too sober.”

I find this absolutely hilarious and spend several long minutes gasping and crying, pounding a hand against the bar. Ahzrukhal only smiles and takes a step back, as if he's concerned I'll hit him in my flailing.

I, on the other hand, _have_ been this drunk recently and I'm a bit impatient with myself—none of my words are coming out right and I find myself repeating sentences over and over, trying to make sense of them even as I say them. The room is spinning incessantly. I think I heard Ahzrukhal say something like “drink until she's pretty” to a customer who stepped in a few hours ago and that's starting to come true. Gaja is a beautiful movie star, like one of those pre-War ladies in the movies that we sometimes watched in the Vault, and Ahzrukhal has become one of my closest friends.

“If I were lesbian,” I say sorrowfully, gazing my ghoul friend. “If only I were lesbian.”

Gaja laughs. “Oh, you charmer... _you're_ prettier than I am.”

I'm so touched. My face feels hot and I find myself crying. “No... no, Gaja, you're beautiful. You're so beautiful.”

I tell her that I want to dance with her, but my feet aren't working anymore and I'm on the floor without knowing how I got there. My face presses into cracked tile. Gravity shifts strangely, pulling overly hard on my face and shoulders, and I realize that I can't stand up.

“She have a place to stay?” Distantly, Gaja is talking to Ahzrukhal, still giggling.

“I don't know,” the bartender says.

“Azzie!” I scream into the floor. “Where is my fifth bottle of scotch?!”

“Don't call him that, honey,” Gaja says, “And you only drank three.”

“Charon,” Ahzrukhal says, and the next time I open my eyes, there's a pair of black boots an inch away from my face.

“Take her out of the bar. Carefully, if you would.” I hear amusement in his voice. “She's been a _very_ generous customer.”

The emphasis on that word makes me wonder what exactly I said tonight. But I'm not left wondering for long, because I lose my train of thought when large hands touch my waist, and hoist me into the air. My eyes fly open in a panic. The room is rocking back and forth and my stomach seizes. Bile floods into my mouth—trying my best to hold it in, the tiniest shred of a sense of decorum still left in me, but my belly presses into the top of his shoulder and I vomit out half of what I'd just ingested.

“Fuck,” Ahzrukhal growls. “Charon, a bit more quickly!”

Charon starts walking, holding onto my legs with one arm. I dangle limply. He bangs through the door and I breathe fresh—fresh _er_ air in the open hall.

There's a small pause, and then he turns decisively. I can feel the muscles of his shoulder and back flexing as he moves, even through the leather. _Strong guy._ I try to remember what he looks like and can't. All I have is the impression of darkness and leather and alien aloofness. Charon.

We pass the chilled air of the hall and into another set of rooms. I smell cooked food... something else that smells warm, and comforting. Can't place it. There's very quiet talking in here that soon falls silent.

“Carol.”

“Uh... Charon. How... unexpected.”

“I have a customer for you. She has overstayed her welcome.”

“...does she have the caps? It's 120, remember?”

“If she can spend nearly 300 on alcohol in one night, I'm sure she has enough,” Charon says with finality. “Where do you want her.”

It's not really a question, it's an order: _this is not my problem._

“Well...” the woman says, uncertain, then sighs. “Put her in the closest bed next to Greta and I. I suppose I'll have to stay up and take care of her, she...”

I don't here the rest of it, because as soon as she finished the first sentence Charon was already walking away. I have another instant of feeling his hands on me before I'm lifted up again. I gag and squirm frantically, needing to empty my stomach a second time, but Charon growls, “Don't,” and somehow I find it within me to swallow it down.

At the last instant, Charon seems to remember that Ahzrukhal ordered him to be gentle, and he reluctantly supports my head with a hand as he lays me down.

 _Oh my god, this is the most comfortable bed of my life._ I manage to grab ahold of his arm before he turns away from me, and I pry open my eyes. _Aha. I remember now..._ that's _what he looks like._

And he is a damn fine man. Probably the hottest I've ever seen in my entire life. His eyes are a darker blue than Ahzrukhal's, and they are just as cold but much more piercing. My pulse thuds. He's waiting for me to either say something or let him go; he was ordered to be gentle with me.

I say something extremely slurred and stupid, like: “So do you know how to be _rough_ with a woman, too?”

Charon's face, if possible, closes off even more and he stares down at me in what I imagine to be the deepest form of repulsion. He shakes me off and my hand falls away.

“Damn,” I mumble. I open my mouth to say something else, probably even more lewd and suggestive, but fortunately a long belch takes its place and he's gone before I have a chance to add anything. My eyes are closing again.

Absolutely perfect. I'm thinking about my future with him, raising hordes of ghoul children in Underworld, and let out a longing sigh as I drift into sweet oblivion. What a wonderful evening. Everything is wonderful. I love this place. I love ghouls. Everyone is my best friend, Gaja and I are basically sisters, and Charon will be my lover the instant I'm sober enough to walk up to him, smack his ass, and get him back to my bed.

Unfortunately, though, drunken fantasies have a tendency of not working out in the morning.

 


	2. Hangover

2

 

_Ghouls. Are. Sterile._

That's the thought that startles me awake, into another crippling hangover. I sit up and the room spins, only it's not even a hundredth of the fun it is when I'm drunk.

“God fucking dammit!” I growl, and grope for my special 'hangover cure' in my hip flask. I learned to carry it about a month after life outside the Vault.

“So you're awake,” a woman says, her voice aged and gravelly. “That's be 120 caps, and 30 extra for the mess.”

“Mess,” I repeat, and down the rest of the flask. I rub my eyes with the heel of my hands. I feel greasy and my mouth is bitter. “I guess that means I...”

“Puked all over yourself in your sleep? Yes.” She does not sound amused.

I look down at myself and realize that I'm in my undershirt and panties. My leather armor is hanging from the top of a partition, having been wiped down.

“Ah... I'm sorry,” I say. Now this is embarrassing. I don't usually cause people this much trouble. “Let's just round that up to an even 200.”

“Well...” she says. “I suppose that would be acceptable.”

I hand over the caps and her demeanor improves slightly.

“Foolish of you,” she chides, “although it certainly isn't entirely your fault. That Ahzrukhal needs to stop selling to people who don't know what they're doing.”

“Please don't blame him, ma'am,” I say. “I'm not very good at stopping myself when it comes to drinking.”

The ghoul looks at me and clasps her hands, thinking, then says quietly, “Doctor Barrows downstairs is an understanding man. If you think you need help...”

I shake my head, and she looks disappointed. But I'm pretty sure that as much trouble as it causes people, they're happy with the caps that I use to pay them off, and _I'm_ happy because it blanks out my thoughts for awhile.

“Are you perhaps Carol?” I ask.

“Oh, yes!” the ghoul says. Her eyes light up. “I'm sorry, I never introduced myself! Well, we did meet under unusual circumstances.”

I haul myself off the bed and force myself into my best manners. I hold out my hand. “It's Helena. And an honor to meet you, Carol.”

“Oh my!” Is it just me, or is she blushing a little? “Don't flatter me, I'm just a silly old ghoul.”

“If you're Carol,” I say, “then you must know Gob.”

“Gob? He's my son... well, not really, not like you would think of a son. We Ghouls don't really work like that, but I love him like he's my own! Why are you asking?”

“Well,” I say with a smile, “he actually asked me to come down here to visit you. He fell on hard times some years back and wasn't able to get a message to you, but now he's working at a bar in Megaton.”

“Oh, that's wonderful news! I'm so glad! if you see him, please tell him that his mother misses him and loves him and that I hope he's happy. But, he shouldn't come visit. It's too dangerous. No, no. He should stay put where he is.”

“It's tough for a ghoul in Megaton,” I say, thinking of how Moriarty slaps him around, “but I think all things considered he'd doing pretty well.”

_All things considered... he's a slave, but he gets light labor, food, shelter, water... the reverence of the Children of Atom, although I might consider that to be an annoyance more than anything else... and he has Nova and myself as friends._

Carol beams from ear to ear. “Bless you! Thank you for coming to tell me. You must be a good friend to him.”

“I hope so,” I say. “I'd consider him to be one of my best friends. Like I said, Megaton doesn't welcome ghouls, but if anyone ever went after him, they'd be answering to me.”

“Bless you,” Carol says, and this time her eyes are welling up with happy tears.

I pretend that I don't see them. “What else, let's see... well, his boss is a jerk, but they get good business and he eats well. His coworker, Nova, is...”

 _Shit._ I don't think Carol will be happy to hear that her son is living with a cheap prostitute.

“...is a beautiful _hostess,”_ I finish. “Yeah. He stays at the bar and serves everyone, and Nova takes care of the rooms. The three of us spend a lot of time together.”

“Wonderful, wonderful!” Carol sighs. “So they're just like Greta and I!”

“Greta?”

The ghoul smiles again. “My partner. We've been together for over sixty years now. She takes care of the food, and I handle the rooms. Just like your friend Nova and Gob!”

 _Really hope that's_ not _exactly how it is,_ I think, smiling back weakly. Plus, I don't think Nova thinks of Gob in that way.

But I say that I agree, since she's looking at me expectantly, and then she turns her back while I pull on my pants.

“Sorry about all this,” I say, as I dress. “I didn't mean to cause you trouble.”

“Don't you worry about it, dearie,” Carol says. “Bringing me news of my son more than makes up for it. Any friend of Gob's is a welcome guest, no matter the circumstances.”

 _The circumstances._ I'm jolted with an uncomfortable memory... what was I dreaming about last night? _Ghoul children?_ And what was that thought that woke me up?

“Oh god,” I mutter. “I really hope this didn't actually happen, but, uhm... did Charon, you know, the guy who works for Ahzrukhal, did he bring me here?”

“Why, yes, he did. I thought you were unconscious the whole time.”

“Fuuuuck.” I smack my palm against my forehead. I reach down for my hip flask, then remember that I'd just emptied it. “Fuck. Oops, sorry, ma'am. Used to cursing to myself alone in the wastes.”

“It's no problem,” Carol says, looking a bit unnerved. “Is something the matter?”

“I might have said something regrettable to Charon when I was drunk,” I confess.

Her eyes widen. “You didn't insult Ahzrukhal, did you?”

“No, nothing like that,” I mumble. I'm blushing. What did I say to him? I definitely remember trying to pull him down into bed with me. _Oh god, why did I do something so stupid? I've barely even kissed a boy, let alone try to sleep with one! And worst of all, a ghoul!_

“He obeys Ahzrukhal in the fullest. He'll rarely act on his own volition. As long as you didn't say anything unforgivable about his master...”

I look up at that. “Master?”

“Didn't you know? Charon is his servant, to put it lightly, or his _employee,_ as Ahzrukhal prefers to say.” She lowers her voice. “But that man is a slave, and all the better. He's a killer. There are rumors about what he's done. He's merciless.”

Great. So not only did I embarrass myself in front of him, but he's also a total psychopath. Yeah, I can't see how this could be bad _at all._ I close my eyes, and let out a long sigh. “Well, I guess I'll just have to apologize.”

“Before that, would you like any breakfast? Greta says that smoothskins don't like her cooking, but it's always tasted fine to me.” She winks. “I might be a little biased though.”

I assure her that I'm not hungry. “I'm actually on a diet right now anyway. I drink so much, I have to watch what I eat.”

“Alright,” Carol says. “But what I said about Doctor Barrows is true. He's a good doctor and a good man. You should think about it. He'll understand. There are ghouls who have gone to help with addictions before.”

“Jet?” I guess.

“How did you know?”

I frown, thinking about the ghouls tripping in the Ninth Circle. “Lucky guess,” I say. “Also, Ahzrukhal told me that there have been problems with caravans getting to Underworld. Do you guys actually need them?”

“It's where all of our supplies come from. It's no secret that ghouls can survive for a very long time on limited food, but it's nothing that any of us want to do. The biggest problem is that with no caravans coming, tourists have only been trickling in.” Carol sighs. “You were our first guest in two weeks.”

“Then that is a problem. Ma'am?”

Carol looks surprised at the sudden steel in my voice. “Helena?”

“Please allow me the honor of clearing the Mall and bringing back the caravans.”

“You would do that? I mean, if there is anything you could do, I would be so grateful. We all would.”

“Then it's a promise.”

“But why would you risk your life to try to help us? Not to offend, sweetie, but you're a human and we're ghouls.”

“Gob's my friend,” I say, “but even if he wasn't, I'd want to help anyway. I'm sort of a professional drifter, so nearly everyone I meet are raiders and Muties and slavers. I like to help kind people when I find them.”

Carol places a hand on my cheek, which surprises me. “You are a good, good girl. Gob is lucky to have you.”

I smile. “If that's all, ma'am, I'm going to go talk to Ahzrukhal once before I leave, let him know that I'm on my way. I'd mentioned doing something about the caravans as well, but I was pretty smashed, so I think he should know that I'm still wanting to do it when I'm sober.”

“Good idea,” Carol says, handing me my bags. “Your guns are under the bed, with your ammo. You stay safe, alright? I'll make sure there's always an open bed for you if you ever need one. I'll still have to charge you, though. I do have to make a profit.”

“Of course,” I say, slinging my rifle across my back. “I promise I'll be back, and soon.”

 

Damn. The Ninth Circle is definitely the last place I want to go. However, I need to talk to the bartender, and I'd like to try to find Gaja before I leave. I barely remember anything from after my second bottle of scotch, but I am pretty sure that she would make a good friend.

Well. Kind of sure. Gob told me a few times that I flirt with Jericho when I get drunk enough, and I sort of hate him when I'm sober. Thankfully, Gob and Nova have looked out for me, and sent me home the single instance where I climbed onto his lap and tried to invite him upstairs. Apparently he would have said yes, too.

I feel bad about that time, too. Drunk Helena gets angry _very_ quickly, and I gave Gob a black eye when he dragged me off of Jericho's lap. I don't think I'll ever live that one down. I felt so terrible the next morning.

I take a deep breath, grimace, and open the door to the Ninth Circle. I try not to look over, but my eyes inevitably dart to my right and I lock eyes with Charon.

 _Shit._ I feel myself go red from my hairline down.

Yeah, he's different-looking when sober. He's thin-lipped, and the radiation has made most of his hair fall out. What's left of it is a russet color. The tightness of his skin, dry and cracked, is a hint that he's old, maybe even pre-War. He might have been handsome if he weren't, you know, a _motherfucking ghoul._

The derision on his face is so clear it could practically be written across his forehead. I flush even darker. Pretty sure I'm going to burn through my clothes.

“Look,” I say, jabbing a finger at him, “I was-”

“Talk to Ahzrukhal,” he rumbles.

I stare up at him in disbelief. Is he fucking serious? He's not even going to hear me out? Other than the fact that he looks like he hates me three times as much now, I might have thought that I hadn't made a fool of myself last night. “You aren't even going to-”

“Go.” He points towards the bar, without his expression changing one bit.

“Damn it,” I mutter, and look towards Ahzrukhal. If he's going to pretend that it never happened, I guess I can do that too. Makes it easier, anyway.

“Hey there, smoothskin, what can I do for you?” Ahzrukhal calls out, grinning. Damn, what a conniving guy. “Something to ease the pain?”

“Sounds tempting,” I say, “but I'd better not. I tend to act out when I get drunk. I... I wanted to apologize for anything I did last night. Do you need any extra payment for the trouble?”

“Not at all, not at all,” Ahzrukhal says, as if it's the furthest thing from his mind, but that smile is still fixed to him, and his eyes are just as calculating as they were when we first met. “It's normal for smoothskins. You can't blame yourself for having such a delicate constitution.”

I snort. “I'd have to challenge you to a drinking match for that comment, if I weren't on my way out. Hey, you know where Gaja might be?”

“In the ruins,” he says. “The neighborhood isn't dangerous as long as we stay away from the Brotherhood. Probably passed out in a building.”

“Too bad,” I say. “Did I pay for everything?”

“Yes, you did,” the bartender smiles, “Every last drop.”

“Uhm... good. I don't like debt. Hey, so, I'm going to take care of that caravan problem for you today.”

“Are you now?” He looks pleasantly surprised. “I thought you might have forgotten.”

“I remember up until the third bottle, more or less,” I say with pretend dignity. “But you'll sort of owe me if I do all this for you, right?”

“Haha, you're an opportunist, aren't you? I understand completely.” The coldness in his eyes ratchets up a notch. I think that maybe asking for something from this man would be dangerous. “What do you want?”

I lean in, smile, and say, “A bottle of scotch for me when I get back, alright? And a beer for Gaja.”

He laughs. I think he was expecting something else. “You'll have it, my friend, as soon as the first caravan comes in.”

“And one other thing. What's the deal with the... asshole in the corner?” To my mortification, my voice trembles when I mention him. _So embarrassing._ I'm too horrified by what I'd said to him to even insult the guy properly.

“Charon? My employee, of course. Very loyal. His brevity is refreshing, isn't it? But don't mistake it for stupidity. Underestimating an opponent has been the last mistake of far too many individuals throughout history. ”

“Employee? That's not how I heard it.”

His eyes narrow. “Then how did you hear it?”

“To the best of my knowledge, he's your slave, isn't he?” My voice develops an edge, although I try to keep my tone civil. When I heard that he was enslaved, the first thing I thought of was Gob. Poor, weary, pessimistic Gob. I give Moriarty shit for having a slave, but he has too much influence in the town for me to actually do anything.

“No, he is not. Ma'am, you insult me. I do not believe in slavery. It is an abomination. I am a firm believer in personal choice. To force another person into bondage is unthinkable. Chains are earned, never forced. Charon made some choices that landed him in my employ. The matters of our contract is between him and I no one else.”

My attention is latches onto that single word. “Contract?”

“I hold his contract, which makes me his employer. He will do what I ask when I ask, without question. You see, Charon grew up around a very interesting group of individuals. They... well, I guess you could say that they brainwashed him.” Ahzrukhal pauses. “He is absolutely loyal to whomever holds his contract. Unfailing, unflinching, until the day that employment ends. Don't get me wrong, I have no doubt that he holds no end of animosity towards me. But so long as he is my employee, he is as gentle as a teddy bear.”

I glance behind me at the tall ghoul. Charon was watching the door, but the instant I move, he turns his head to glare at me.

“Right,” I say, slumping down. “Goddamn. Real piece of work. How do you live with him shooting those vibes at you all day?”

Ahzrukhal winks at me. “Thick skin.”

I roll my eyes. “Whatever.”

“Actually...” Ahzrukhal looks thoughtful. “You're going to Rivet City to meet up with the caravans, right?”

“Yeah. I'm going to clear the way for them, before I get there. That should help convince them to stop avoiding the Mall.”

“Excellent. Charon. Charon! Get over here.”

 _Oh god._ I hear his footsteps and I pretend that I suddenly find the wood grain of the bar to be absolutely fascinating.

“Our dear customer, Helena, has volunteered to help Underworld. She's going to help bring the caravans back. And _you_ are going to escort her to Rivet City, and help her kill the feral ghouls in the metro.”

He's stopped by my side, utterly silent. Finally, reluctantly, “If that is what you wish.”

“Th-that's very kind of you,” I squeak, “but I really don't need an escort—uh, guard-” _Why did he have to use that word?!_ “I'm actually more of a stealth fighter-”

“Then that's perfect,” Ahzrukhal says. “You'll be with the sneakiest ghoul in Underworld. Alright? You're doing me a favor, I'll give you one by letting you borrow my guard. Feel free to order him around as you wish, provided you don't do anything to get his sorry ass killed. Charon? Listen to her, don't let her mess anything up. I expect you back within four days. Get going.”

“But, I...”

...flinch as Charon's hand grips my shoulder, heavy as lead. I snap my mouth shut, not daring to look up at his face.

“Go,” he growls, and I obediently stand up from the barstool without another word. He steers me towards the door, shoves me out through the entrance to Underworld, and into the Mall. Aside from Willow on patrol, we're completely alone. And we'll be alone together for four days.

Fighting monsters. Working together.

God. Fucking. Dammit.

 


	3. Metro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I was asked so nicely, I decided to release this chapter early. Chapter 4 will be posted on Thursday, as promised.
> 
> Enjoy! ^-^

With Charon by my side, I don't dare even breathe too loudly. He ignores me entirely, shooting down feral ghouls in the metro before I even notice them. Charon wouldn't need my help but for a few places anyways, so I don't know why Azzie didn't just send him down alone to get rid of them before. Honestly, my presence makes this a lot more dangerous for him, and causes a few sticky situations; one of them being when we turned a corner and came face to face with three massive, horribly mutated ghouls.

He swears, the first thing he's said the entire trip, and empties his shotgun right into their stomachs. Gray, decaying ghoul flesh spits out and flecks the walls. They barely show any reaction to the mortal wounds, except for a snarl, and fight back despite the blackened intestines hanging out of their bellies.

One of the ghouls' fists smashes right into the side of Charon's head and sends him flying. Their bullet-riddled bodies are finally beginning to fail them--two blasts with my 10mm pistol finishes them off.

Their bodies lay in a tangle, bleeding out on the railroad tracks. Their flesh is pulled away from their injuries like bandages hanging off of a preserved corpse. I don't know how those ghouls were able to stay alive, if you can call existing in that state 'living'. Ghoulification is one hell of a powerful mutation.

I holster my gun and turn around. Charon's flat on his back, bleeding from a thin line on his temple.

 _Shit._ I hold my breath, but then he rouses himself. Looks like he was just stunned. He's on his side, pushing himself off the ground, but I watch him from a few yards away, just in case.

“You okay?” I venture.

He grits his teeth, shoots me a death glare, and says, “I am fine.”

_Alrighty then._

“So...” I say. “Uh, any idea of how much farther it is?”

“With you along? Any number of hours.”

“Wow, geez,” I snap. “Just go by yourself then, I'll follow at my own pace.”

Now he's _grinding_ his teeth. Goddamn. He growls, “Ahzrukhal ordered me to accompany you. As he is my employer, I cannot disobey him.”

“What a shame,” I say with feeling. This has been the most fucking awkward trip of my entire life. And here I'd thought that taking Red and Shorty back to Bigtown was weird... with the way those two practically worship at my feet now? This is way worse.

We walk in silence for a few moments. The only noises around us are earthy sounds; creaking pipes, dirt settling. Charon is soundless. I would be too, except that my laser pistol clicks against my hip flask with each step, quietly.

I risk glancing at him. His left hand is resting on the combat knife at his side. He's wearing leather fingerless gloves. Above his wrist, skin is peeling badly, revealing raw skin stripped down nearly to the muscle. A large blue vein pulses right at the surface, spiderwebbing out until it's hidden beneath normal layers of skin again.

I look away. I... feel a bit sorry for him. I've wondered what it's like to be a ghoul a few times before. I've thought of asking Gob what it's like, but any time I try to bring up the subject, he complains bitterly about his “joke of a body”. Though from what Gaja had told me, he was turned twenty-some years ago, so he's a lot more angry about it than most ghouls.

But what part might be the worst? The peeling, itchy skin? Constant necrosis? Eternally raw radiation burns? Losing your nose, maybe?

I sigh, and glance at his arm again. It looks painful, but from what I understand ghouls have dulled senses, and even things like gun wounds aren't enough to stop them for long. Part of the reason why feral ghouls are so easy to sneak up on. Terrible sense of smell and sight. I think hearing is their strongest sense?

I think Charon notices me looking, because he grumbles something under his breath. Doesn't sound much like words to me. _You okay, buddy? You aren't turning feral on me, are you?_

“Can I clarify something?” I ask.

“Clarify away,” he says, holding out a hand to stop me. His attention is focused on the distant shape moving in the depths of the metro. He squints as he aims his shotgun, and we watch the ghoul tumble facedown into a puddle of radioactive water.

“Good shot,” I say. “Uhm, well, I... don't really think well when I'm drunk, so what happened last night...”

 _Oh my god that sounded awful. Like as if something actually_ did _happen._ I flounder a bit, grasping for words, and Charon only gives me an incredulous glance that I'd be bringing it up again.

“I don't sleep with ghouls,” I say shortly, and then cringe again. “I mean, I'm not trying to be a bigot or anything, it's nothing personal—I guess if I met the right one, I'd... uh... uhm... I just meant that I'm not interested, or something, so, I guess I'm sorry.”

“Very well,” Charon says, still keeping himself turned away from me. There's another pause and then he adds, “Don't talk about it again.”

“Noted,” I mutter, my cheeks flaming.

I'm pretty sure I never want to speak again after that, but fortunately we're both distracted by the sound of voices ahead. Through the darkness, firelight dances and casts hazy shadows against the walls. We've reached Anacostia Station, and we are not alone.

“Raiders,” Charon whispers, yanking me back against the wall. “At least three of them. This is an active outpost, but they usually aren't here. For the past few months, I've simply waited for them to leave. They never stay for longer than twelve hours.”

“Gotcha,” I say, and pull a tiny bottle out of my ammo belt. Guess it's time for some real preparation. Humans are a lot tougher than ghouls, because humans are actually _smart._ Firefights can last anywhere from thirty seconds to eight hours. A lot of factors to consider: your odds, the ammo, their experience, your position, stealth.

“...what is that?” Charon asks, watching me unscrew the plastic lid.

“You've never seen these before? Caravans brought a bunch from an airport down south. I bought their whole supply. They're pretty cute.”

“Is that _scotch?”_

“Two ounce bottle! Lightweight, travel-sized fun.” I drain the entire thing just before Charon slaps it out of my hand.

“What the hell are you doing?” he growls. “There are at least three raiders out there, armed with any variety of weapons, shooting up Psycho and jet! And you're getting yourself _drunk?”_

“Shh,” I warn him. “It's fine. I shoot better this way.”

“While drunk.”

“I'm not trying to get drunk, dumbass, I just need to get buzzed.” I push past him and drop down onto the rails. _Glad these things aren't live._ I'd heard a story from Gob once about someone who tried to fix up one of the lines. Some Brotherhood of Steel guy. Ended up completely frying himself and his engineering buddies. The Brotherhood has shelved that project for another time, I think.

“What... what are you doing?” he hisses.

“Trying to find my bottle,” I whisper.

“Leave it and let's go!”

“No way! You're the dumb fuck who made me drop it!”

Charon exhales angrily and steps back until he's pressed against the wall again. I feel his eyes on my back, furious, as I methodically pick through the rubbish dropped on the ground.

“A _-ha,_ ” I say, feeling the familiar plastic, the two hundred year-old label peeling off. I drop it into my ammo belt, stretch my shoulders, and unholster my laser pistol. “Alright, let's go.”

I think I see Charon grit his teeth again. “You're quite sure you're ready?”

“Mm... yes. I think so.”

He doesn't say anything else, only turns his head to wait for the raiders to come into range. I kneel down beside him and completely still my body. My eyes open wide. I blank all of my thoughts, all physical senses, and _listen._

Dripping water far ahead, the shudder of an ancient machine as it struggles to keep itself running. A raider's muffled cough. A food wrapper crackling, the click of a cigarette lighter, and a smoke-filled sigh.

I am listening so intently that I hear my own heart beat. I hear a quiet breathing, way too close, as if there's a raider right around the corner. I'm nearly driven to panic when I realize that it's only Charon. _Damn. I'm_ so _not used to traveling with another person._ It definitely won't be good if I keep hearing him and thinking that he's an enemy.

I look up at him from my crouched position, irritated, and tap his calf to get his attention. He jumps a little. Apparently he's not used to having someone with him either.

Charon squats beside me. “What?” he whispers.

I lean close. “You breathe too loudly, I can't tell how many of them there are. Can you... you know... stop for awhile?”

There's a long silence. He's not looking at me and I can't tell what his expression might be under all those scars and burns. Finally: “Very amusing.”

“Come on,” I hiss. “You're a ghoul, can't you hold it?”

“As unfortunate as you may find it, I am still alive, and therefore I must breathe. I find myself unable to comply with your request.”

 _Geez, is this really what Ahzrukhal has to deal with every day? No wonder he sent Charon with me,_ I gripe silently, holding onto the barrel of my rifle. I take off safety and whisper fiercely, “Okay, fine. There's at least three of them, as you said, maybe two more at most. Let's go for it. And stick close to me, or else I might accidentally shoot you.”

Charon is already stepping forward into the station, shotgun primed and ready. I catch sight of a raider at the entrance to another line and sound off the first shot. The laser blast is much more quiet than most weapons and the woman falls onto her back, dead, without anyone on the upper level noticing.

Charon grunts. Not sure if it was out of reluctant approval, or just an acknowledgment. A male raider, a shirtless thug with a beer belly and curls of black chest hair, swears as he sees Charon approaching. He shouts a warning an instant before Charon's buckshot tears open his body in a dozen places.

“Motherfucker!” a woman screams from upstairs. There's a silence as we hurry towards the dead man, then a _ting_ and a clacking down the platform.

“Grenade!” I shout, and pull Charon backwards right as he reaches the top of the stairs. He stumbles, caught off-guard, and nearly falls down the stairs. He catches his balance at the last second, swearing furiously, and ducks a microsecond before the grenade explodes. Shrapnel slams into the handrail an inch above our heads, and some of the pieces fall close by, glowing red-hot.

“Come on!” I charge onwards, not looking to see if he's following, and catch sight of the woman's spiky hair as she takes shelter behind a sheet metal barrier. I squeeze off three blasts, scorching the metal but missing her entirely.

“Damn and fuck!” I shout. She's readied her own shotgun and has got it aimed right at my chest, only thirteen yards away from me. I throw myself to the ground as she shoots, and I swear I hear buckshot whistle past my left ear.

_Shit shit shit-_

There's a second blast, and then a meaty thud.

I lift my head hesitantly. Charon is standing in the middle of the platform, shotgun smoking. His expression is assured, and a bit smug. He lets the barrel of the shotgun rest on his shoulder and takes a last moment to double-check Anacostia Station. Wouldn't do to miss a raider and get shot in the back on our way out.

I think it's mostly because how dark it is in the station, but he cuts an impressive figure.

I sit up and say reluctantly, “Thanks. You saved my ass.”

He gives me a curt nod and slings his gun over his shoulder. “Let us proceed.”

“Hold up,” I say, and out of the corner of my eye I see him cross his arms angrily. “Not done here yet.” I skip around the barrier and inspect the dead raider. Charon really did a number on her. Doesn't have much of a head left.

I stick my hands inside her pockets. _Let's see... four caps? What the fuck._ Whatever. Her ammo belt has some 10mm bullets, which I'm pleased to find, and dump them into my pack. _A grenade? So she had two, cool._ I'll be taking that as well.

I spot a chain around her neck and pull at it. The silver slides right through the remainder of the skin attaching her head to her body. Oops. I inspect the charm dangling from it. It looks like a rhinestone cat.

Charon has stopped a few yards away from me, waiting. I lift it up so that he can see. “Hey, what do you think of this?”

His expression could have frozen someone to death, but he's been glaring at me so often that I'm beginning to build a tolerance for it.

“Yeah, not really my style.” I drop the necklace back onto her chest. “You aren't going to loot anything?”

Charon is quiet again. I am certain he doesn't want to talk to me, but his responses make me think that there must be something in his contract that forces him to speak when I ask a legitimate question.

“It's distasteful,” he says, and I'm so caught off-guard that I burst out laughing.

“What the fuck?” I'm floored by that, and keep giggling. “You, Ahzrukhal's hitman-”

“Guard.”

“Ahzrukhal's _slave,_ having compunctions about something so stupid? They're _dead._ You think they're going to need their shit?” I stop by the shirtless man and make a face at his fat, hairy body. “Yick. What on earth do you for food and ammo? Or caps? Does... does Ahzrukhal give you an allowance?”

I imagine that for a moment and then keep chuckling, picking out a few wads of pre-War cash from the raiders pockets. Looks like this guy was a collector. Cash isn't worth much, but it's better than nothing at all. His other pocket has a spent Psycho syringe. I toss it over my shoulder.

“Very amusing,” Charon says sarcastically. “I drink irradiated water that collects in the metro, and eat mirelurk meat.”

“That's fucking disgusting,” I say, and head back downstairs, all the way out to the raider girl that I'd shot. She's got a few more caps, and...

“Yes,” I say, and snatch it off her corpse. “Johnnie Walker, my dear friend, it is a delight to see you again.” One of the rarest but best brands of scotch I've found so far. Unfortunately it's half-gone, but I carefully refill my bottle a full two ounces, and then chug what's left.

I hear Charon mutter something behind me.

“You know, if you have something negative to say, you can keep it to yourself,” I say without turning around.

“Did you hear what I said?” he demands.

“No, not quite.”

“Then it was kept to myself,” he says.

Well, I won't argue with him on that one. He was asked by his master to listen to my orders, and if I really pushed at him to shut up then he might be forced to. As much as Charon grates at me, that kind of control over a person would be creepy and nasty.

I hear a small noise and find a fourth raider, sky-high on Ultrajet, eyes blankly staring ahead as he watched something only he could see.

“God bless you, Murphy,” I say, as I shoot the raider in the face. If he hadn't started distributing it, if this raider hadn't bought some and gotten hooked, then we would have been facing twice our numbers, which would have made things much more difficult.

No caps on him and just a bottle of dirty water. Junk.

“Here,” I say, and toss it at Charon. He catches it reflexively. “Got you a present.”

He looks at his hand, then says, “You took it off that man?”

“Yeah.”

“Then, I don't-”

“Shut up, Mr. Morality,” I snap. The rush of scotch on an empty stomach has worked its way into my bloodstream, and I start snickering again. I have to shake my head. How many people know this side of him? A merciless killer, who refuses to loot corpses?

Makes me wonder if it's a tactic he uses to distance himself. I guess that bodies don't seem that real if you refuse to look at them. A lot of people in the wasteland have a hard time living with what they've done. We all have different coping skills. I suppose while mine is alcohol, his must be a secret moral code.

I wonder what Ahzrukhal would think. Does he know about this?

Something tells me that he probably doesn't.

“...Hey,” I say, stopping, and put my hands on my hips. Charon is stiffly carrying the water bottle. His gaze finally settles down to meet me. “You don't have to carry it if you don't want to.”

He opens his hand and it hits the cement floor with a thunk that echoes through the cavernous room. I watch it roll underneath a table and come to rest against a bent tin can.

I massage my temples. This situation is getting on my last nerves. I'm exhausted by the tension between us, and suddenly I feel very tired.

Could also be the scotch, though.

“Come over here,” I say, and lead him to one of the dirty mattresses that the raiders had left behind. I flop down onto it, carefully avoiding the suspicious stains in the middle. Blood? Jesus fuck, what on earth were those guys up to?

Charon is eyeing me warily.

“Have a _seat,_ goddamn,” I groan. “Don't look at me like that. I'm an honest girl, okay? I _told_ you, I'm not interested in jumping your bones.”

He grinds his teeth but sits mechanically, as far away from me as possible. “I thought we agreed to never speak of it again.”

“Yeah, well, you brought it up first.”

“I did not say anything,” he rumbles.

“You were _thinking_ about it, though.” I roll my eyes and open my bag. Wrappers crinkle as I root around. “Aha, there it is. Fancy Lad Snack Cake?”

Charon stares at the proffered treat. “No, thank you.”

“Your loss.” I tear open the plastic and take a bite.

“You... eat two hundred year-old food,” he says.

“Fuck yeah. Only thing left that still taste good. Better than _mirelurk meat,”_ I scoff, then catch myself. “Wait, no. I forgot, I'm trying to be nice to you right now.”

Grinding his teeth again. Go figure.

I take a bite of the cake and then say, my mouth full of icing, “I'm sorry that Ahzrukhal ordered you to listen to me.”

A long silence. “...that's what you wanted to say?”

“Yeah. I'm not an idiot, Charon. We're loners. I think that's the only thing we'll ever agree on. You wanna do your own thing, I wanna do mine. I wanna get drunk and loot shit, you wanna leave stuff behind like a dumbass.” I stuff another pastry into my mouth. “If Azzie wasn't trying to 'repay the favor', we wouldn't be stuck together like this. I ain't apologizing for my way of doing things. But I do wanna say sorry that you're roped into it as well. I'd be pissed, too, if I had to obey everything you asked me to do.”

“Fortunately, that is not the case,” he says. “My employer did say that I am allowed to keep you from doing anything completely reckless. And if you try to back out of your promise, I will be compelled to make you complete it.”

“Yeah, like that's a huge consolation,” I snark. “Anyway, your contract? It's fucked up. I don't like it.”

Charon doesn't say anything, although I'm certain he agrees with me. He'd have to be _really_ messed up to think that the contract is what's best for him, and with the amount of hateful vibes he puts out, that can't be the case. His mind and personality is more intact than that. I wonder if this was what he was like before the brainwashing, or if he became a jackass after god knows how many years of servitude.

“We should keep going,” he says eventually.

I check my Pip-Boy. “It's one in the afternoon,” I say. “You know hot it's going to be outside?”

“Didn't you want to finish this as soon as possible?” he demands.

“Yeah, but I'm not going to wait around in the sun and wait for the caravans to pull in. I'm going to take a nap. _You_ can go outside and wait for them to come, if you want.”

I toss a nearby blanket onto the mattress, covering the stains, and lay down, using my pack as a pillow. Charon slowly stands. He doesn't say anything else, only growls something under his breath and stalks over towards the exit.

“Have fun,” I call, my voice muffled by the mattress.

“Fuck you,” he spits.

I giggle into the mattress and shout back, as he reaches the top of the ramp, “You wish!”

 

 


	4. Weight

When I wake up, I feel hungover. Bad sign. I curse and turn on my Pip-Boy. It's six in the evening. Charon is still gone.

Something's wrong, unless that fucker found some loophole with Ahzrukhal's orders and managed to leave me behind. I wouldn't be surprised if he had. I'd want to leave me too.

I roll off the bed, take a quick piss, and drain the rest of the Johnnie Walker scotch from the airplane sample. Whatever the case is, I think I want to be drunk for it.

I have my laser pistol out as I reach the top of the ramp. He's not anywhere in sight. I check the restrooms (maybe he needed to take a really, really long shit), and curse again when I don't find him. I note a Protectron still in lockup but I don't activate it. I've never traveled with someone before, and I think that a ghoul, feral or not, would probably set off its sensors.

Still nothing. He must have left the metro.

Outside is much hotter, although the dry earth is beginning to cool as the sun creeps down lower on the horizon. A thick line of clouds in the far distance suggest that it might rain during the night. Much closer, I see a rusty ship, cracked down the middle. Must be Rivet City. Not what I was expecting.

A few hundred yards away, I see the caravan, and to their left, what looks like a Brotherhood of Steel outpost. No sign of Charon, until I look farther left and see a tall, broad-shouldered ghoul face-down in the dirt.

“Shit, shit, shit!” I run to his side and drop to my knees. _Shit._ There's blood in the dirt. He's been shot in the side. Twice.

I take in a deep breath and look up at the sky... so distant and alien.

I didn't want it to be like this.

Damn him, I hadn't expected to have this lump in my throat. More than anything else—more than my own fighting style, my cursing and drunkenness, my appreciation for the long, silent treks through the wasteland, being, you know, _alone—_ the biggest reason why I never wanted someone along with me is because I didn't want anyone to die.

I'm furious when I feel tears coming to my eyes. _Damn him!_

Why did he have to listen to me? Dumb fuck, if he knew there was a Brotherhood outpost here, then why did he let himself get caught by them? Of course they'd shoot an evil-looking bastard like him! They rarely kill sane ghouls, sure, but there aren't rumors for nothing. He probably glared at them until they opened fire.

I sniff, and tentatively place my hand on the collar of his leather armor. Least I can do for the poor son-of-a-bitch is take him back to Underworld for a proper burial. Or whatever the hell they do with dead ghouls.

I start to drag when the 'corpse' lets out a wheezing moan. I shriek and jump away, and Charon falls back to the ground.

“I swear to god, Charon,” I warn, approaching him, “If you are actually dead and that was just a corpse noise I will be so freaked out. And pissed.”

I see his hand twitch, and my pulse pounds. Fury suddenly overtakes me, and although I don't say anything else, my teeth grit and I see red for a moment. _You dumb fucking bastard,_ I snarl to myself, _you will regret getting your dumb ass shot._

I seize him by his shoulders and manage to pull him up high enough that I can get his arms around me and drag him back down into the metro. _Damn him. And damn me. I slept while he bled out in the dirt, not even a thousand yards away._

“Charon,” I say, through gritted teeth, “You are one heavy bastard, but I'm not about to drop you and if you fucking die on me I will kick the shit out of your corpse and drop it off the balcony in Anacostia Station.”

There's a horrible choked sound from him and he seizes against me. I almost panic, thinking it was the sound of his last breath, but then I realize it was a short, mangled laugh.

“Yeah, real fuckin' funny,” I growl. “Nothing else I did was amusing, but hey, lose a liter of blood and all of a sudden I'm hilarious.”

He stays quiet the rest of the time as I drag him. I'm not strong and so it takes a long time. My back feels wet at some point and I realize it's ghoul blood.

After what feels like an hour later, I let him fall onto the filthy mattress. “Congratulations,” I say, looking at the nasty stains on the fabric beneath him. “You're in a safer place but now you have AIDS.”

He manages to open an eye but doesn't say anything.

“Let's see what I remember,” I sigh. “Ghouls can't benefit from stimpaks, at least not as much as humans can. Med-X barely does a thing, and...”

I pause. If there was one thing I'd learned in Underworld, it was that if you give a ghoul enough of one thing, it'll do something eventually. Ultrajet, alcohol... and hopefully stimpaks.

“I'd better hear at least a thank you,” I say to him. Honestly, I have no idea if he understands what I'm saying or not, but the talking is keeping me calm. I mutter to myself all the time when I'm alone. With Charon half-passed out, I might as well be.

“Now I know you'll be utterly shocked by this,” I snark, pulling out my medical supplies, “but I actually get hurt all the time. I'm weak as shit. So I always carry at least four stimpaks. Hope that's enough to keep you stable.”

I lean over and poke at his side, which extracts another groan from him. “Yeah, not fun, huh? Maybe that'll teach you not to get fucking shot. Anyway, it looks like everything passed through. You're lucky that your ribs were weak enough that they broke. First time you've ever been happy to have that happen, I bet.”

I drive the syringe into the bullet wound and press down. Charon hisses in pain, and his breath keeps huffing out even when I'm done.

“That should at least give you a tiny bit of strength,” I say. “Now I'm going to have to disinfect it. This is going to hurt, a lot.”

I pause. In order to disinfect his injuries, I'm going to have to... _dammit._ I have no scissors, and I don't trust myself with Charon's knife to hack the leather armor away from the wounds. Worse, his clothes are... tightly fitted, so...

I feel myself turn red. I was thinking about how it would be impossible to cut them off, but that only made me realize that his leather pants were just as tight. _Fuuuuck._ Fuck you, Drunk Helena. This would not be a problem if I hadn't gotten so smashed that night we met. Ever since that particular train of thought got started up, I've been hyper-aware of him, and thinking way too much about the wrong things.

Taking a deep breath, I begin to gingerly undo the clasps and buckles that hold his chest armor in place. With the heaviest pieces off, I'm finally seeing what's underneath. Not like I want to. Beneath all the armor is the collared leather shirt, much softer and pliable than the armor. It's buttoned, fortunately, so I don't have to try to force it over his head. My knuckles brush against his chest as I work my way down, and my heart nearly stops in embarrassment.

 _Helena. You are practically a doctor. You're your father's daughter. You've done this sort of thing for all kinds of people._ I grit my teeth. _Sure, he's a guy, so it's weird to be touching him, but if you can be fine with cuddling up to Jericho, there is no reason why you should be getting so shaky now._

I clear my throat as I come to a realization. _Time to bite the bullet._

“Don't you fucking get any ideas, _shuffler,”_ I spit at him. “Don't you even think about it. About _anything.”_

Charon almost manages to lift his head to look at me, surprised by my sudden shift of tone. I sigh and explain, “I have to get your shirt off to do this properly, okay, and you're too heavy for me to really lift right, so... oh, goddammit...”

I lean forward and push his shirt up to his ribcage, then swing my right leg over him. I'm straddling him, carefully holding myself up as high as possible; no other way to really get his arms through the sleeves from any other position.

I can sense him watching me as I move his limp arms, and I grimace. _Close your eyes, Charon, dammit. I am_ not _making eye contact with you in this position._ I pull his right arm through and he hisses in pain from the stretching movement it makes.

“We're half-done,” I say firmly. “Please believe me when I say that this is worse for me than it is for you.”

He makes a small choked noise, maybe another laugh, and I make the mistake of looking down. My heart thrills. His blue eyes trapping mine. The warmth of his torso against my inner thighs...

“Motherfucker,” I growl, and pull the shirt off completely. I nearly lose my balance, stand up, and leap back as if burnt. _Ugh, what the fuck?_ I know I'm not crazy; I'm sober and I don't like ghouls, especially not this one. It's definitely some kind of sexual tension from that thing that happened with Jericho last month. I get a chance with one guy, and suddenly I'm inviting all kinds of creeps into my bed when drunk, and getting hot and bothered just because I'm taking off a man's shirt.

 _Charon's_ shirt, I remind myself. He's a _patient._ I have to stay professional.

“Thank god _that's_ over with,” I mutter, and look at Charon again, studiously ignoring his face and anything south of his navel. Mm. Two bullet holes. Inside is some kind of shattered mess of ribs and torn tissues and maybe the pulse of intestines and kidney. I'm just thankful I have stimpaks, or else I'd have to reach in there and fit the ribs back together myself.

“As long as the pieces of your ribs are still touching,” I say, “they should knit together when I inject the rest of the stimpaks. Of course, that would trap infection inside and I think you probably have enough necrosis going on in there.”

I make a face as I pull a bottle of scotch out of my bag, shoving aside more Dandy Lad Snack Cakes. “You know what this is, buddy? _Talisker._ It's damn good scotch. Even more rare than Johnnie Walker. If I thought you were going to die, I'd use the cheapest shit I could find, but this has a high alcohol content. That means it'll scour your insides.”

Charon sighs.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, _get a move on,_ right?” I uncork the bottle. “You won't be happy, though.”

I dump the bottle out into the wounds and he screams, a loud roaring filled with anger and pain. I swear and scramble back, surprised and suddenly terrified. The sound dies down to a low snarling and he is glaring at me again, his chest moving up and down rapidly.

“Told you,” I say, and I can't find it within myself to be upset that my voice is quiet and trembling. Charon grinds his teeth, still growling, and looks away. I take that as my cue to pull out a spare shirt from my bag, clean if not new. I tear it into thick strips, using the left over bits to dab at the wound, hopefully pulling away any sweat and dirt that made its way inside. The snarling rises and falls in volume periodically, ending in a sort of yelp when I pour on a second helping of scotch.

“I'm done, I'm done,” I say, holding up my hands. If he could move, I think Charon might have killed me just then. I start binding the wound as best I can, and use my last three stimpaks.

And then I wait.

I have his blood in my hair, on my clothes, on my arms, and of course on my hands. Thick red splatters that slowly dry and flake away as the hours pass, just like the peeling skin of a ghoul.

I've got my back to him, and my arms are wrapped around my legs. I feel about as low and awful as I've ever had. _This is why I hate being sober._ Nothing to dull the pain, nothing to take off the edge of the horror and insanity of this evil world. I looked into the side of dying mutant and listened to his screams and knew that if he died it would be my own fault. Both because I told him to go ahead, and because it was my own surgery.

Hell, I don't even know if stimpaks _do_ work on ghouls.

I doze, my chin resting against my knees. Don't know how many hours it's been, but I can still hear his ragged breathing behind me. That's good.

He coughs, and lets out a pain-filled groan. “...Hel...”

 _Helena...?_ Was that my name? Is he awake? I spin around and crouch by his side, taking his hand in mine. “Charon...”

“...He...” His eyes squint up at me. My heart pounds. He's trying to say my name. I didn't even know that he remembered it.

“You don't need to speak,” I say, squeezing his hand.

He growls at me, and finishes his sentence. “...hell's wrong with you... bottle of scotch... damn alco... holic...”

I drop his hand and fall on my ass laughing. _Helena._ As if! I crack up, nearly hysterical from stress and sorrow and emotion. He wasn't trying to say my name, he was trying to curse me out!

But, I'm glad he's alive.

 

It takes Charon the rest of the day to come around. I find some purified water for him, stashed away deep a crate beneath some rubble, although I can't convince him to eat a cake. He manages to tell me that radiation will help him recover, but since I can't find anything suitable, I settle for surrounding his entire bed with bottled Nuka-Cola. He starts to laugh when he realizes what I'm doing, but turns a nasty shade of white and stops abruptly, holding his side.

By this time we've been gone for two days. Ahzrukhal ordered him to return in four, so I'm hopeful that he'll be able to walk tomorrow.

“Charon,” I say, sipping at some cheap liquor (I'd run out of scotch), “I'm going to go talk to the caravans now. I'll see if I can get more stimpaks or maybe some Med-X. Anything I should know?”

“Brotherhood of Steel has a sniper,” he says, touching his side gingerly. “Didn't even get close to the caravan. New outpost. Apparently they hate ghouls more than the ones in the Mall.”

“I would say so,” I muse. “I wonder why they let me pull you back in here?”

“You're... human,” he says, “and they probably thought I was dead.”

“It was very convincing,” I agree.

“If you can't get them to visit Underworld, at least negotiate for Ahzrukhal's alcohol,” Charon reminds me.

“Yeah,” I say, and brush myself off. “I know. A bunch of shitty beers, whiskey, wine, vodka, and a few bottles of _choice scotch.”_

“Drunkard,” he accuses, then adds, “Don't drink any of it.”

“I'll drink whatever the fuck I want, _rotter,”_ I shoot back. “And, hey, I'm going to abuse some authority: you're not allowed to leave the bed. If you need to drink, pop open a Nuka-Cola. If you need to eat, then you'll have to deal with the dreaded Dandy Lad Snack Cakes. If you need to piss, then just aim off the bed. Same with shitting, too. Deal with it. I'm not having you getting up and passing out facedown in water just because you're a stubborn bastard.”

He lets out a wheezing laugh. “I can barely move my arms, what makes you think I'll try standing?”

“I know how men are,” I retort. “They're _stupid.”_

 

Out in the sunlight, I take a moment to look around the gravelly wasteland. Irradiated water surrounds me on three sides, with only the metro and a mountain of rubble behind me.

I squint at the Brotherhood outpost in the distance. It's right beside the water, a hastily-constructed fort surrounded by sandbags and stretches of barbed wire. I'm sure that Rivet City is happy to have them, but I'm curious about where they came from.

I take a few moments to stare until I think I see something gleaming, and then look away. So _that's_ where the sniper is. Good to know, although I'm not going to do anything about it. I have friends in the Brotherhood, sort of, and I like them. As long as Charon isn't dead or permanently disabled, I'm not going to start anything with them. But I might ask them to hold their fire on him, at least.

Thank goodness, the caravan is still there.

“Hey there,” I call, striding towards the bellowing Brahmin and the four figures surrounding it. One of them waves. “Whatcha selling?”

“Food and booze,” one of the guys says, who I assume is the trader. “Some ammo. Reduced price because the Brotherhood assholes shot our contact.”

“Good news,” I say firmly. “Your contact ain't dead yet, and I'm here for his stuff.”

They look at each other, and then the trader shrugs and says, “I sold most of it, but I'll give you what's left at the reduced price. You have the caps?”

“You can get them from Ahzrukhal himself,” I say. “I'm taking you to Underworld.”

“Hell no,” one of the guards says, a short young woman with a pixie cut and twin revolvers. “You know how many feral ghouls and Super Mutants have started coming through there? Not to mention the raiders.”

“Don't worry,” I say. “They're not going to do anything. I worked out an arrangement with them, where I put a bullet in their brains and they stop messing with travelers.”

The trader lights up a cigarette. “Alright? Then you lead the way, missy.”

“I need to get fucked up first,” I say. “What's the strongest stuff you got?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Ultrajet.”

“Not that shit,” I say. “I meant alcohol-wise.”

“Eighty-proof vodka.”

“Good enough,” I say, and hand him twenty caps.

The trader looks at his palm. “You've overpaid me?”

“That's the price the ghoul bartender was demanding,” I say. “It was so much fun I thought I'd overpay one last time.”

The trader smirks and pockets the caps.

“Also,” I say, “my ghoul... friend, I guess... he's hurt. You have anything that could help him?”

“Just the Ultrajet,” the trader says, “since nothing else will affect him.”

“I'll take my chances on a stimpak.” I thank him for the medicine and lead them into the metro. Red's called me the Hero of the Wastes, but I don't think I deserve a stupid title like that until I think about the image I must be presenting. Leading a caravan into the hellish metro, clearing the entire area of dangers, exchanging my own earned money to save a stupid ghoul who seems to do nothing but embarrass or piss me off.

Doing stuff like this makes me look soft. People like Red, Shorty, Lucas Simms, Billy Creel, you know, the 'good' people of the world, they love it, but anyone else thinks that it means they can take advantage of me. I'm glad I drink and swear, or else it might be a lot worse.

Just as I asked, Charon is laying perfectly still on the bloodstained mattress. He raises his head a little, and I can tell by the way his brows furrow that he's surprised I convinced the caravan to come with us so quickly.

“One other thing,” I say, cutting off the caravan. “He can't walk. If... if you don't mind, I'll carry the cargo myself. Please, let him ride the Brahmin.”

I see Charon's expression shift out of the corner of my eye, but I force myself to ignore him. I feel stupid enough so as it is.

Begging like this... it makes me think of life back in the Vault. Making myself the lowest, most unwanted kid in the Vault, doing anything to try to be kind to others, to be helpful, only to have it get spit back in my face. It makes me feel weak, makes me forget that I don't have this badass guns strapped to my waist and that I'm a ten year old asking for the smallest of mercies once more.

The caravan guards glance at each other, and the trader chews his bottom lip as he considers. “I don't know, girlie... most of my stock is gone, but it's still a lot of weight. At least fifty pounds. You sure you can handle that, along with your own stuff, for the whole trip? It's about two hours up to Underworld if we don't run into trouble. And if you drop anything, that kind of defeats the purpose of having the Brahmin carry it.”

“Please,” I say, my voice small. “I promise I won't drop anything. I can't leave him behind.”

“Alright,” the trader says, with a sigh. “If nothing else, it makes me feel a bit better that Underworld has humans looking after it. Was thinking that I was the only one who wanted to do business with them.”

He motions, and the guards start unpacking the Brahmin. The straps that held crates atop the beast are now used to lash everything together, and we finagle a way to stack it and tie it to me so that the only way it'll fall is if I do.

Goddamn, it's heavy. I don't know if I can do this. I'm swaying on my feet just from this weight, and I haven't even picked up Charon's gear. _Shit._

I tilt my head up, looking at the hairline cracks in the ceiling high above us, and I imagine what it might be like if the building fractured and crumbled completely. All the tons and tons of cement and rubble and wood and books and glass and probably bodies that would come crashing down on top of our heads, and bury us for another two hundred years or more.

Kind of how I feel with this shit strapped to my back.

“Hey. One of you guys, can you reach into my bag for me? Left side pocket.”

The trader obliges, as the guards are situating Charon. They're being rough, making him growl, because they're reluctant to touch his bare skin. Their faces twist in revulsion as they touch the raw places on his skin where the veins and muscle show through. Unfortunately his arm wasn't the only place where the burns were that bad; there's another on his shoulder, a patch on his torso, and two larger ones across his back. Everything else is scarred and peeling and puckered.

“This what you wanted?” the trader asks doubtfully, drawing my attention away from them. I hadn't realized that my fists were clenched.

“Yes,” I say. “Can you help me with it?”

The trader sort of winces, looking troubled. “Are you sure you want it? Even I don't sell this stuff.”

“Mm.”

I don't know what this stuff will do to me, but I'm willing to risk it if it means saving Charon. If I don't carry their supplies, I'll have to carry Charon, and given his enormous height and muscular build, he's got to be around three hundred pounds. It'd mean that I'd have to leave him behind, which would break his orders since he's supposed to accompany me. And if I asked the guards to help me with some of this stuff, they'd probably just laugh in my face and leave him behind.

I have to make myself believe that this is what's best, that this is my only option, or else I'll probably wuss out of this.

I have to.

He sighs. “Where should I...”

“Into the neck.”

“Goddamn,” the trader mutters. I feel a sharp pinch, and the trader injects an entire syringe of Psycho straight into my bloodstream.

 


	5. Feral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said Thursday updates, but how am I supposed to keep a schedule when you guys ask me so nicely for the next chapter? ;_;
> 
> Anyway, part 2 of "Love and Other Deadly Sins" is coming along nicely, so I'll give you Chapter 5. The plan is to have Part 2 finished before we reach the end of Part 1, so hopefully I'll still meet my schedule. If not, it wouldn't be more than two weeks' wait until it's finished.
> 
> Enjoy!

“Alright!” I say cheerfully, and clap my hands. _Good. Charon didn't notice._ I don't want to know what kind of reaction he'd have to me pumping myself full of psychoactive drugs. “We all ready to go?”

There's a rumble of assent. The Brahmin bellows and it echoes through the station.

I smile half-heartedly. I feel a twinge of an inexplicable rage beginning to rear its ugly head. I've done Psycho once before, but this is faster than it normally kicks in.  _Please don't take it out on the Brahmin,_ I tell myself. _It's just a noise. Just a noise._

“Hand me his stuff, please,” I say calmly, and the guards place thirty pounds of Charon's clothes and ammo and guns, all wrapped up, into my arms. They're beginning to look a little unnerved, with the odd way the trader is acting, and my forced smile. _Fifty pounds, yeah right._ It's more like ninety. My back feels like it's going to snap in half.

I let a small growl as I crack my neck. “Let's go, then. You guys keep an eye out. We cleared this place up through Underworld, but there's always a chance that something else found its way in. You see or hear anything, you tell me, help me get my pistol out.”

“Yes, ma'am,” the guards say. I'm sure they're happy to have another fighter with them, but they'd be much less thrilled if they knew what drugs were coursing through my system.

Reason why most people do jet instead of Psycho. Jet causes some problems, sure. It was originally designed as a performance enhancer, but if you overdose it causes stupor and hallucinations. Good way for people to escape from reality, especially ghouls, some of whom remember the good ol' days before mutants and FEV and the monsters that populate the world.

Psycho, on the other hand, was always meant as a last resort. It was created by the military. It increases strength enormously, but there's also a large increase of aggression. Coupled with permanent brain damage and risk of psychotic episodes, it's something that any sensible person would stay away from.

Guess I'm not that smart.

I glance back at Charon, who's flopped over on the Brahmin, bracing himself on the join of their necks with an arm. He's grimacing, but it looks like the fifth stimpak gave him enough strength to be able to support himself and stay on the animal without assistance.

“Doing okay back there?” I call.

He grunts, and I take that as a yes. I'm standing up straight now. The weight is lessening with each minute, and oddly, I can feel my pulse in my eyeballs. _Remember that you're doing this for Charon. The faster you get there, the faster he'll get medical attention from that ghoul doctor. And if you drop this shit, chances are good that they'll either drop Charon, or he'll get punished by Ahzrukhal for messing this up. And with the compulsions that his orders give him, who knows what would happen if he failed an order?_

I don't want to find out.

“Think we can speed up a little?” I ask. The lights up ahead in the metro are flickering, and I can't tell if it's an effect from the Psycho or not.

“Not sure,” one of the guards says. “With the ghoul's condition-”

“We can afford to go a little faster,” the trader interrupts.

I inhale sharply. Far ahead, I thought I saw the trail of something dark and smooth pass in between the rail cars. _I can't be having a psychotic break, could I? This is only the second time I've ever taken Psycho. It's not like I'm an addict._

Raiders are junkies. Raiders see things, they get aggressive, they go insane. I'm not a raider, I'm not a junkie. I'm fine. That means there's a chance that something really is there.

“Might have been a trick of the light,” I say casually, “but I thought I saw something up ahead. Stay alert.”

The guards murmur and I hear safeties clicking off on their pistols. The trader gives me an apprehensive look. “You alright?”

“Mm,” I say. “Fine.”

The Brahmin lets out another long groan and my eyes squeeze shut for a few seconds. When I can finally open them again, my heart is pounding and my mouth is dry and sticky. I'm breathing hard. I try to force another smile as my stomach turns painfully.

I tell myself that everything is fine. This is what is best for Charon. It was my fault that he lay in the dirt for so long, my fault that he was the one to step out of Anacostia all alone. So, if I have to deal with a little pain and tension, that's fine. I'll manage.

At least the weight on my back is lighter. I can feel how hard and tense my muscles are, how hard they're working, but it doesn't hurt. The weight barely feels like it's there. The adrenaline flooding my system washes away everything else.

“Hey,” I mutter to the trader. “Could you... you know... tell me if you see anything? Not sure if I can trust myself right now.”

Better to be safe than sorry, and we're nearing the spot where I saw that black ooze.

“Sure,” he says, and puts his hand on my shoulder. “You just follow my lead.”

“Thanks,” I say quietly, trying not to attack him for touching me. But it's a decent idea. If it's a really bad episode, I might start trying to walk through walls or something.

As we pass the rail cars, I stare into the spot in between them. Nothing. Flat cement wall on the other side. _Thank god._

The red is seeping into the rest of my vision, which is normal. My pulse is harder and faster, also normal. The two enormous feral ghouls that I see standing one hundred yards away in the entrance to the Museum Station? Definitely not normal.

They see us and turn. _Shit..._

“Are those...” I begin, but the trader already has his gun out.

“Ferals!” he barks to his guards, and then they're on us.

I see everything in flashes. There's so much red. I don't think to drop Charon's gear; the Psycho in me makes me let out an awful roar and charge them, immediately on the offensive. One of them swipes at me, but it takes a bullet in the arm and takes a step back.

“Motherfucker!” I shriek. It's dumb as hell, but I'm fighting these guys with ninety pounds on my back, with my arms full. I'm defending and attacking with kicks alone, and the craziest part? I'm actually landing some of them. The ghoul I'm going after falls to his knees, bringing him down to eye level with me, and I stare into his crazed face. He's got one eye, the rest of his face horribly melted and all oozing serous fluid. Pus is collected at the cornea and films over his pupil.

I scream directly into his face, knee him as hard as I can, and kick him off to the side. Hard enough that I can feel the pain in my leg through the Psycho. The feral falls on his side, down onto the tracks, and without a second thought I jump after him.

“Urahh!” the feral bellows as I land on his stomach, but he stops screaming when I bring down my heel hard on what's left of his nose. Again. Again. I'm stomping him and my vision slowly fades out. I can feel claw-like fingernails scraping my legs, cutting through my armor, and heat....

It's the silence that brings me back to myself, and the lack of oxygen. I'm sweating bullets, gasping, bleeding, and I fall to my knees in a gory mess on the rail line.

“Holy shit,” the female guard says, staring down at me with a hand on the Brahmin's lead. “That's the most fucked-up thing I've ever seen. Badass though.”

I look down at my hand to see what's got her so impressed. In my right hand, about the size of a baseball, is the ghoul's eye. Yellow, pus-encrusted, bleeding, staring sightlessly.

I ripped out a feral ghoul's eye with... with my bare hand?

I shudder and drop it, and it falls into a mess of shattered bone and brains. My left hand is clean but shaking. There's nothing left of the feral's face, or head. Looks like he was trampled by a herd of stampeding Brahmin.

I hold back vomit and look towards the station. The other ghoul is dead as well, having been shot several times.

I say roughly, “Everyone okay?”

“Yeah,” the trader says. He's bleeding and clutching his left arm, which looks broken. “Everyone's alive.”

I finally raise my eyes to Charon, still grimacing in pain and holding onto the Brahmin. He's weakening quickly, I can tell, but he's looking at me with narrowed eyes.

 _Fuck._ Wonder what he thought of me going apeshit on a creature that he might see as a kind of kin. I glance around, and curse.

“Sorry, Chare,” I say loudly, trying to distract myself. “Accidentally dropped your shit in this mess.”

I retrieve his gear from the tracks, dripping blood and ghoul piss. I give him a weak smile and he just stares at me.

“Do not call me that,” he says, and I relax a little. Good to see he's still willing to talk to me after that.

“Okay,” I say, wiping my bloodied hand off on his armor, “best be careful as we leave. With those two fuglies down in here already, there's a good chance that there's others up on the platform or right outside the gates.”

Two guards help haul me up off the tracks and I continue to lead the way. I see movement in the shadows, and turn my head sharply, but it disappears the instant I look. _Damn Psycho._ The lights are flickering again.

At the very same instant, there's voices coming from up ahead.

“Hahaha, what the fuck? You kidding, man?”

I take in a sharp breath as I see two raiders laughing and talking right before the gate, but they both disappear in a cloud of ash as we approach.

_Dammit, dammit, dammit._

I shift Charon's gear to my right arm and hold out a hand. “Mr. Trader....”

He takes it wordlessly, leading me through the gate, up the stairs. I hold in a low moan as I look at the sky again. It's oppressive, heavy, and blood-red. Three moons are visible far above us. Looks like it's nighttime, on an alien world. But the skyscrapers and all the rubble that I remember from the Mall are still here, and I don't see any more figures.

“What's the situation?” I ask calmly.

“Looks clear,” the trader says. “Sunny day, a few clouds... think we made it okay. Ah, and there's the ghoul lady on patrol.”

I look up to see Willow, as she might have been before she was turned. Long red hair, hooded eyes with long lashes, her body curvy and filling out her leather armor.

“Hey tourist,” she says, and her voice is free from rasping. “Looks like you succeeded, huh?”

“I guess I did,” I say, and sigh. “Guys, help me get this stuff off. I'll have to leave you here.”

A guard begins to ask me something, but the trader cuts him off and begins unstrapping all of the goods from my back. “She's right. Help me out with this.”

I think they're realizing something's wrong. They work silently, and within a few moments I'm free and unburdened. I feel more powerful than I have ever felt, energy coursing through my veins, the red hazing over my vision. Without the weight holding me down, I'm restless, holding back snarls, looking for something to hurt.

I force the emotions down and hug my arms to myself. “Good luck. Make sure you get him to the doctor right away.”

I'm not seeing so well anymore, but I can tell Charon is looking at me, and his voice is low and rumbling and suspicious when he says, “...human... what have you done?”

“Bye, Charon,” I say. “It was nice meeting you. We're done now, right? We got back to Underworld safely, neither of us are dead, we cleared the way for the caravan, and we brought Ahzrukhal his stock. Contractually, you're done with me, right?”

Cautiously, he says, “Yes.”

I slump to my knees and my shaking hands compress so hard that I feel my bones creaking, blood welling in my palms from my fingernails biting into my skin. I gasp and bite my lip, trying to focus myself.

“Hey,” he croaks, as loud as he's able. “You damn drunkard, what did you do?”

“I... I...” I'm hyperventilating now, and I hear laughter on the edges of my perception. Evil things. Enemies all around me. “I have to go now. I... can't... hold back...”

I lift my head and let out a long shriek that splits the heavens, and I see one of the moons fade away. The ghoul's torn-out eye replaces it, the long string of ocular nerve smashing down against the earth and toppling a building five blocks away.

I scramble to my feet and lunge at the Brahmin, unable to control my rage. The trader stops me grimly, barrel of his shotgun pressed against my chest. I gasp for a few long moments, tears streaming from my face, bloody snot dripping onto my lips. Then I snarl, turn, and sprint away into the wasteland.

 

Red fog surrounds me, and the sky drips blood from the ghoul's planetary-sized eye. The illusion is degrading my rational mind. I know that it isn't real. But I feel the wetness on my skin, can smell iron heavy in the air.

That eye up there? Not real. But the blood... in this hellish world, I could hardly be surprised if there was actually some kind of invisible partition above me, with either ghouls or humans or Muties hanging from it, bleeding out onto me as I walk below. It looks and feels too real. The eye watches me as I wander the ruins, and I hear distant screams.

Both of my hands are clutching my 10mm. I know that the Mall is dangerous. There's Muties everywhere, feral ghouls, Talon mercs, anything and everything. They could be all around me and I might not ever know.

My teeth are chattering. Two monstrous creatures lunge forward out of the fog, claws inches away from my throat—I shoot them without hesitation and they evaporate.

 _Nothing. Fuck._ Chills run down my spine and I crouch beside a rusted-out car. No idea if it's actually there or not. I need to hide, wait out the psychosis, and hopefully it'll be gone once the Psycho wears off. A few unlucky people get stuck with psychosis forever... I think if that happens, I'm going to kill myself. I won't be able to stand these apparitions, all this blood, forever. And the ghoul eye is freaking me the fuck out.

 _Breathe, Helena._ Air whooshes out of my lungs and I close my eyes. Can't trust my vision, hopefully the auditory hallucinations won't be as awful as the visual ones.

“Hey, _loser.”_

I reluctantly open my eyes. He's five feet away from me, standing in jeans and black boots and that awful leather jacket. “Butch.”

He grins nastily. “The fuck are you doing out here? Crying again?”

“Shut up, Butch,” I say tiredly. I remember that line. This was when he found me outside the classroom, around when I was fourteen years old, crying because no one wanted to partner with me for a class project. “Go away.”

“Yeah? Hey, what's that on your face? Seriously, you got something gross—God, disgusting, you have zits? Stay away from me, Helena, that looks contagious.” He laughs again and I roll my eyes.

“Like acne is communicable,” I spit. “You ever listen in health class instead of jacking off to diagrams of the female reproductive system? Go fuck yourself.”

He sneers. “Least I get more than you. You're so ugly not even your _hand_ wants to be down there.”

I shoot him in the head and he falls hard on the pavement, brains splattering. His eyes are wide open.

...I... I hope that was just a hallucination. _Didn't the others disappear when I shot them?_ But Butch is still there, the villain of my childhood, mouth open and pants wet from piss.

 _He's not real,_ I tell myself, slowly backing away. _Just the Psycho._

The gun is shaking in my hands. Doc Brown told me, when I was interviewing him about chems, how bad Psycho is. Said it was the worst drug in the Wastes. Enough of a hit, or get a bad trip, and you start seeing everything as an enemy. You can end up killing your own friends or family, thinking that they're Deathclaws.

 _N-no one would be out here,_ I tell myself, and flee across the street. _No one good, anyway. I left Willow behind, Charon's getting help, the caravan is inside. The Brotherhood of Steel might be around somewhere but they're heavily armored, I wouldn't kill one of them with just one shot._

_I wouldn't shoot an innocent person._

I dodge into an alley and look both ways. The red haze is obscuring my vision really badly now. Visibility is at... hm... maybe twenty feet? _Shit._ I run to the end of the alley and press my back against the wall. Hopefully, this building is real. And I'd be fine with the fog being real too. It would hide me from enemies and maybe give me enough time to work the Psycho out.

There's an enormous roar, and I turn around just in time to see a Super Mutant with a minigun leaping out of a second-story window. I swing my rifle around and pump six shots into his chest, evading the first spray of bullets, although the impact against the pavement sends gravel sliding into my skin, a dozen tiny bleeding scratches. I skid backwards, and the Super Mutant snarls and locks in on me again.

“Stay away from me!” I scream, and aim for the head. I see his arm twitch as he pulls the trigger, and there's a blast as his head explodes like an overripe watermelon.

“Motherfucker,” I say, wiping blood off my face. _That_ could have been a Brotherhood guy. God, I hope not. They're dicks to the ghouls, but I kind of like them.

I sit back down. If nothing else, I hope that the corpse beside me will deter anyone else from attacking me.

As if in response to my thoughts, the sky echoes with laughter and lightning strikes the building across the street. I grit my teeth and hold my gun tightly.

 

Not sure how many hours have passed, but the sky hasn't changed in color. If my sense of time is accurate, it would be around five or six in the afternoon. My stomach is growling, but I'm not about to try to eat anything like this. Might mistake rocks for food, or worse yet, mistake a corpse for a feast. Doc Brown said that's happened before.

So no food and no scotch. My heart rate is slowing down incrementally, which I think is a good sign.

“...Helena?”

I sit up straight and listen closely. Someone calling my name? With that voice, it can't be...

“Helena,” Charon calls again.

I put my hands over my ears and close my eyes.

“There you are,” he says, relieved. “Are you alright?”

I look up slowly. Charon, real as he's ever been, standing at the entrance of the alley.

“You aren't real,” I accuse, and I'm humiliated to find that I'm crying. “You were hurt. You can't be walking, so you aren't real.”

“Helena,” he says, his voice rasping and low, “Doctor Barrows took care of it. You know how much radiation he has access to in his laboratory? A few hours with two Glowing Ones, and I'm fine.”

I bite my lip. “I... you shouldn't come near me. I'm still seeing things. I don't trust you.”

He growls in frustation and takes another step forward. “It's me. You're okay, Helena. Come with me. I'll take you back to Underworld. I'll protect you.”

I don't say anything, even though those words send a flood of hope coursing through me.

More gently, Charon says, “You saved my life. You think I'm going to abandon you here?”

Tears keep falling. There's this lump midway between my heart and my throat. He... he wouldn't be saying anything like this. We don't like each other. We're done with each other. He should be back with Ahzrukhal, not out looking for me.

“Helena,” he says, then looks away. Reluctantly, he continues, “I... what happened with us, that one night, and then in the metro...”

My heart is pounding.

“I mean that it's not a problem. I don't dislike you for it. It was... an accident, the first time, and... I'm sorry, nothing I am saying is coming out right. Helena, I... I love you.”

“Charon,” I say, my eyes streaming tears.

He looks at me, and there's this expression on his face that I can't fully describe. Tender. Warm. “Come here,” he says, and opens his arms wide.

“N-no!”

“You're okay. You're safe.” Charon is coming closer still, his footsteps loud on the pavement.

I hold my gun up, my head buried against my knees, shaking. “Go away!” I scream, and there's a growl and a scraping noise as he lunges forward.

_Bang._

And then silence.

 

It takes me a long time to finally look up.

My face is swollen and my eyes puffy; I swipe at my eyes with my bloody hands and let out a choked sob as I see the corpse in front of me.

The body of a huge, broad-shouldered ghoul, less than a foot away from me, his arms outstretched. His back is gnarled and twisted, and his face is frozen in a permanent snarl. A feral ghoul. It... must have been trying to figure out if I was prey or not, and when I shouted...

I let out a long, shuddering sob and reload my pistol. Hopefully I'm putting ammo into it and not rocks.

...good thing I didn't trust him. The Psycho made him sound so convincing, so kind. I have to laugh at myself. As if Charon would ever say anything like that.

The part that tipped me off? I don't think Charon knows my name. Honestly. We've been together for days and he hasn't said it once. I never mentioned it and I don't think he would care enough to ask for it. 'Drunkard', 'woman', 'human'.

That's what I am to him. Although I said Charon was my friend to the traders, we're really not. We were just traveling companions for a one-time job. Sure, it got a little hairy at times, and we made dumb mistakes. Provides a false feeling of closeness. But we barely know each other. I still don't know for sure if he's pre-War or not. I smile a little, as I imagine what kind of withering expression he might give me if I asked.

 

Somehow, I fall asleep there, with the body of the ghoul in front of me and the Mutie beside. Don't know how long I slept, don't trust myself enough to check the Pip-Boy.

And someone's calling my name again.

I squint open my eyes. I feel dried out, exhausted, a thousand years old. Brilliant pale sunlight streams down from a blue sky. No triple moon, no giant eye. No blood... or at least not much. I'm covered in it, waxy thick dried blood, all over my hands and my face and my clothes.

Looks like I really am in an alley, too. The feral ghoul is still there, and looks like the other thing I shot was a real Super Mutant as well.

“Helena!” the shout comes again, and I sigh in relief. It's not Charon. I don't know what I'd do if I saw him right now. I suspect it would be something stupid.

“Gaja,” I say weakly, and the ghoul rounds the corner and stops.

I've got the pistol pointed at her.

“Don't move,” I warn, and she raises her hands, her eyes wide.

“You shouldn't be here,” I say. “I don't know what's real anymore.”

Gaja looks around. I'm watching her carefully, and so far I'm not seeing any warning signs. But, again, I can't trust myself. “Helena,” she says. “It's okay. Come on, you shouldn't _be_ out here, sweetie! I'm surprised you aren't dead.”

“Me too,” I say. “I intend to keep it that way.”

Gaja reaches into her pack and I fire a warning shot.

“Jesus!” she growls. “I'm just getting you water!”

“I'm not drinking anything.”

“You're _dehydrated,”_ she insists. “How long has it been since you've had anything to drink?”

“I had whiskey for breakfast yesterday.”

“Whiskey. Okay, how about actual _water?”_

I consider that for a moment. “Not sure. Few weeks.”

Gaja groans. “Uhm, alcohol is dehydrating? You should be getting water from something other than food, you know, _at least once a day?”_

I let out a choked laugh.

“My objective isn't to get shot by you, so how about this. I'll roll the water over, you can drink some, and we'll talk a little bit. Then you can decide if you wanna come back with me.”

I hesitate, then nod. The water bottle comes to a stop at my feet, and I'm gratified to see that it's purified water. If it's actually water at all, that is. Still not sure if the Psycho is lingering.

But I'm so thirsty. I'm going to take my chances.

Gaja sits down at the end of the alley. “Otherwise, are you okay?”

“Not sure,” I say. “I have some deep scratches on my legs from a feral. Probably infected by now.”

“I have a stimpak, but I don't think you'll trust me enough to use it.”

I shake my head.

“Anything I can say to help convince you?”

“Not really,” I say. “But thanks. If you're not real, at least you're nicer than the others.”

Gaja glances around. “You seeing anything else right now?”

“No. Don't think so. Was pretty awful a few hours ago.”

“Mm.” She presses her lips closed, like she's holding back words.

“Gaja?”

“Yes, hon?”

“Does being a ghoul hurt?”

“...well. It's uncomfortable. But it's not painful.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ah.” She sighs and leans back. “Our joints ache constantly. In my opinion, that's the worst part.”

“I heard that the mutation is connected to a genetic cartilage condition,” I say. “Which is why ghouls lose their noses.”

She shrugs. “Never had joint problems as a kid. But then again, it's a better explanation than most. Makes sense. No one knows why only certain people become ghouls.”

“What about the peeling?”

“This?” Gaja grabs a flap of skin coming from her arm, and rips. I flinch back and she laughs. “Relax. It grows back fast enough. Doesn't hurt. It's all dead skin anyway.”

I look more closely at her arm. The place where she tore the skin is a lighter color, a long line of paleness, like a stripe down to her wrist. It's not bleeding, there's no muscle or tissue exposed, but clear fluid is already welling up.

“That's a lot better than I thought,” I say with relief.

Gaja laughs again. “It's like being an old house that no one lives in. We creak and groan and we've got way too much peeling wallpaper.”

I snicker and finish the water bottle. “That's disgusting.”

“Hey, keep your opinions to yourself, smoothskin,” Gaja says, and laughs again so that I know she isn't offended.

I look down for a long while, and then I say, “...and... Charon, is he...?”

“He's fine,” Gaja says. “Acts like nothing's wrong with him and glares at everyone. The usual. Like he's daring someone to suggest he's weak.”

“Sounds about right,” I say. “And Ahzrukhal?”

“Pissed that his bodyguard got hurt but he's okay otherwise. He even asked about you, you know.”

I startle at that. “Charon?”

“No, Ahzrukhal,” she says. “That old bastard doesn't care about anyone, but I think he's pleased that you've helped his business. And you saved his favorite hitman.”

I sigh. Damn. Should have known that Charon wouldn't ask after me.

“Whatever,” I say. I stand up, and smile. It's weak, it's a little sad, but it's genuine. “None of this sounds too good to be true. Guess that makes you believable.”

Gaja brightens and jumps up. “Yay! Carol's gonna be so happy.”

“She was worried too?”

“Yeah! Everyone knew about you, ya know? We had to lock up Underworld since you were running around out here screaming and shooting shit up. Some of us wanted to just put you out of your misery, but the rest of us argued that you deserved a chance to snap out of it.” She smiles. “Glad you're back with us.”

“Mm,” I agree, and as we pass the rusted hull of a car, I hold my breath as I look past it at the sidewalk, where Butch's corpse had been laying.

There's nothing—not even a stain.

I lean against Gaja and she puts an arm around my shoulders. “Come on, kiddo. Let's go home.”

 


	6. Goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Milestones:  
> -300 views  
> -Part 2 is finished, so I have no reason to panic whilst uploading an unscheduled early chapter  
> -the word "motherfucker" is now coming up as a suggested autocomplete on my PC
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and thank you for commenting! I was hardly expecting to get many kudos on my work since it's getting to be so long, but you guys are sticking with me! I am humbled by your support, and ecstatic that other people love swearing, Fancy Lad Snack Cakes, and last but not least, Charon, as much as I do.
> 
> Enjoy! ^-^

“...I'm just saying, you're fucking nuts,” Gaja cackles, downing her twenty-fifth beer. “Injecting Psycho to save that asshole? You couldn't have, you know, asked those smoothskins to carry him?”

“Yeah _right,”_ I slur back. “They nearly threw up just touching him.”

“That's hilarious.”

“Pissed me off, though. If they dropped him, I'd have dropped their shit too, ask them how that'd make _them_ feel.”

We're in the Ninth Circle, the evening after being released by Doctor Barrows. As I'd figured, I was getting some kind of nasty infection in the ghoul scratches, but with some bandaging and antiseptic, I've been doing just fine. After a stimpak the wounds have scabbed over, but they're beginning to itch. Win some, you lose some. After coming back from a situation like that, I guess I should be happy that I'm alive at all.

I glance over my shoulder. Charon is back to his normal self, utterly silent and intimidating. I haven't said anything to him yet. I nodded at him when Gaja and I walked in, but all he did was cross his arms.

_Sigh._ Looks like just with the whole... um... incident, when we met, he's treating our excursion like something he wants to forget, too. Pretending it never happened. I'm just another unruly smoothskin drunk, and the instant Ahzrukhal gets tired of me, I'll be kicked out of the bar too.

“You'll be going back to Megaton then?”

“Yeah. Stop by Carol's Place first, talk to her, see if she wants to send a letter to Gob.”

“Good idea. I—urp—miss that kid. Hey, do ya think I might be okay if I wanted to visit you and him there?”

I shake my head. “I'll come down and visit you here, and if you want to see Megaton, I'll take you with me. It's too dangerous for a ghoul to travel alone.”

Gaja thinks that's funny for some reason. I shake my head and take another sip of scotch. She's actually drunker than I am tonight. She's chugging beer after beer, trying to beat me to blackout for some stupid reason. I'm still on my first bottle. Sure, it's a higher proof than usual, but still. After that mess with Psycho, I don't feel like messing with my brain functions for awhile.

“How's the scotch?” Ahzrukhal asks, wiping down the table. His brow crinkles in irritation as Gaja lays her head down and tips over her beer.

“Good,” I say in approval. “You really pulled out all the stops with this one.”

“In thanks to you,” Ahzrukhal replies. “I can't say that we'd have gone out of business without your help, but it'll be back to normal, and that's all I can ask for.”

I smile. “It was no problem.”

“Hah!” Gaja shouts, and punches my shoulder. “As if! I found you high off your ass in the Mall crying! No problem? You busted your ass for that guy. He should be... be payin' you.”

“No caps,” I say, holding my hands up. “I just wanna help out.”

“Savior of the Wastes,” Gaja sighs dramatically.

“Shuddup,” I retort, and she has another giggling fit. I have to admit that drinking with friends is a lot more fun than drinking by myself with Gob and Nova looking on. (Jericho doesn't really count as a 'friend'.)

“I wouldn't pay you anyway,” Ahzrukhal says, “since you brought my employee back injured.”

“Cop-out!” Gaja shouts.

I laugh. “It's fine, it's fine. I blame myself for that anyway. As long as everything has a happy ending. That's all I care about.”

“Happy endings and booze.”

“I'll raise a glass to that,” Ahzrukhal quips. He gestures to my scotch. “Another?”

“Not tonight,” I say. “I'm gonna head back to Megaton soon, try to make it back before midnight.”

He raises an eyebrow. “One for the road, then?”

“Awh, you've got me sold.” I hand over ten caps happily, and he exchanges me for another of his best bottles. I nestle it down in between my clothes and Fancy Lad Snack Cakes carefully. I've never broken a bottle. Need to keep that record.

I leave Gaja with Ahzrukhal; there are plenty of ghouls in the bar, but nearly all of them are jetting.

I meet Charon's eyes as I go for the door, and nearly pass him by—something stops me and I turn to look up at him. Goddamn, he's tall. I'm the tallest woman I've ever seen and I'm only eye-level with his chest.

I put my hands on my hips and say, “Well, I'm leaving for Megaton soon.”

Charon's expression doesn't change, nor does he move. His blue eyes are fixed on me, unfeeling and cold.

“Huh? What was that?” I lean forward and cup my ear, then step back in mock surprise. “No 'talk to Ahzrukhal'? Wow, we're practically best friends by now!”

Charon sighs. “What do you want, drunkard?”

“I _wanted_ to say that as much of a jackass as you are, it was fun.” I pause as he gives me a dubious look. “And... thanks. You didn't totally suck as a partner.”

He shifts his gaze away from me and lets out an exasperated sigh.

I bite my lip, irritated with myself. Why is it so hard for me to actually acknowledge him properly? It's like I've gotten myself into this habit of trashing him, and now I can't stop.

I clear my throat, and add gruffly, “Take care of yourself, Charon. Maybe I'll see you again.”

I duck my head and rush out of the Ninth Circle, my chest tight. Stupid. Don't know why I feel like this. Stupid ghoul. _This is all Ahzrukhal's fault, if he hadn't sent us out together, then..._

My pace slows, and I hang my head. It's not Azzie's fault. _He's_ not the one making me feel this way. I don't know why, I don't know what it is, but I hurt inside.

I... I wish Charon had said goodbye.

 

Stopping at Carol's Place doesn't take long. She's got a cup of tea waiting for me, and an extremely long letter to Gob. I watch as she seals it in an envelope, noticing that the name _Greta_ is mentioned multiple times.

I hide a smile. They're cute. Even when writing to her son for the first time in years, she can't help but think about her lover, too. I'm glad Carol has someone. I think she's one of the happiest people in Underworld.

“You'll make sure he gets this?” Carol frets.

“Of course, ma'am!” I grin. “I'll guard it with my life.”

“Don't you dare,” Carol warns, pointing a finger at me. “You do enough dangerous things. I can write a hundred letters, but who's going to take them to Gob without you?”

I'm startled when she hugs me. She's warm and soft—for the first time in the six months away from the Vault, I wonder what my mother would have been like. Hearing my dad talk about Catherine, seeing how even a sack of shit like Butch could care about his mom... really makes me think about what I've been missing out on. Of course I'll never know, but I think that my mom might have given hugs like this.

My eyes tear up, and I wrap my arms around her.

“You be safe, young lady,” Carol rasps. “Don't let anything bad happen to you. Gob and I will miss you.”

“I'll be back soon,” I say. “I promise.”

 

The last person I speak to before leaving Underworld, surprisingly, is Doctor Barrows. I had slowed down when I saw him at the foot of the stairs. I've never seen the guy outside of the Chop Shop, where he runs his absurd and frightening tests on feral ghouls both living and dead.

“Helena,” he says. “A word, if you will?”

“Sure,” I say. “What's going on?”

“I wanted to talk to you about Psycho.”

“Ah.” Now I see why he looks so grim. “I thought you said that the effects are all gone? I'm totally okay, right?”

“Your symptoms were puzzling,” he says with a frown. His tone shifts to quietly warning. “Unless you were lying about your previous usage, you shouldn't have had such drastic effects.”

I raise my hands. “Definitely not. Once before was it, I promise.”

“Then, would you say that you're a smart girl? A powerful imagination, perhaps?”

I think back to the rigorous intellectual and physical tests that us Vaulties were slammed with at twelve years old, right before we get fitted for our Pip-Boys. Measures our attributes, helps determine our strengths and weaknesses, as well as figures in for our maximum improvements possible. They'd tagged me as a 10 in intelligence, which was a good two points more than anyone else in my class. Dad was the only other person in the Vault who'd gotten as score as high as me.

“I guess so,” I say with a shrug.

“Psycho tends to affect intelligent people more strongly, especially if they have vivid dreams. Meaning, you probably will have similar effects with every subsequent injection.”

“Not good,” I agree.

“Also,” he says, “I was looking at the brain scan that we took yesterday, and although I didn't see any immediate problems, I spent some time looking it over again. Given your symptoms, of course.”

“Yeah...?”

He splays a hand over his mouth as he speaks, as if he's unwilling to say the words. “There was some brain damage. Mild, but chances for serious complications. I'm giving you this warning now, so that you won't do anything you regret: don't take Psycho ever again.”

“Or? What'll happen, what's wrong with me?” Understandably alarmed, I'm especially horrified because it's my _brain._ My biggest tool and weapon, my source of wit and tactics...? I'm not strong or fast. If I lose some intelligence because of this, or get some kind of mental handicap, I'll be as good as dead. Might even be better to stop leaving Megaton altogether, which would basically doom me to never, _ever_ finding Dad.

“Damage to the part of the brain that governs perception of reality,” Barrows says. “If you imagine, for instance, hairline cracks in a large bust of marble... two shocks were enough to crack it, and a third will shatter it irrevocably.”

I bite my lip. “You're saying it'll make me go insane. For good.”

“Very likely. Even now, there's a chance you'll being having psychotic episodes, and dementia when you're older.”

I bark out a dark laugh. “No guarantee that I'll make it that old.”

“Well, there's always the _minuscule_ chance that you'll be ghoulified,” Barrows says, “and in that case, I don't think you want to have an indefinite lifespan with dementia.”

I shudder.

“Didn't think so. Stay away from it. Also, ah... cut back on the alcohol and sugar? Your blood has got the most cholesterol I've seen since the Great War, and you'll drink yourself to death if you keep up this pace.”

“Yessir,” I say glumly. “That everything?”

“Mm, I think so. Make sure you come back if you start seeing things again. I'll do what I can to help you,” he says. “Charon isn't the most popular ghoul in Underworld, but you did all you could to save him, and he's technically one of us. You're welcome back here anytime, smoothskin.”

“Thanks,” I say softly.

He gives me a nod, looking me up and down, and then turns away. I think he isn't expecting to see me again. _Good to know someone's optimistic about my lifespan,_ I grumble to myself.

I take a last moment to watch Underworld right from the entrance. This place has really grown on me. I'm protective of it, and proud, and it makes me happy to think about it, unlike the gloomy people of Bigtown. I love those guys, but damn are they a bunch of sourpusses.

There's ghouls walking up and down the hall, leaning close to each other to whisper gossip. A ghoul couple sitting on a bench together peacefully. Winthrop checking on the old Mr. Gutsy that patrols the building. I can hear laughter coming from Carol's Place.

I nod to myself, satisfied. One more place that's right in the world.

I catch sight of movement towards my left and look up. On the balcony, a tall, broad-shouldered ghoul with red hair and gray-blue eyes leans against the railing, watching me. His expression is cool and distant, but he lifts a hand.

A huge grin breaks out across my face and I wave back enthusiastically. Charon stands up straight, crossing his arms again.

“Goodbye, Charon!” I shout, and the murmuring ghouls fall dead silent to stare at me. Charon grimaces but waves again. I snicker to myself—the entire town saw Charon, the chilly, impenetrable bodyguard, saying goodbye to me. _Image: ruined._ Probably pisses him off. Serves him right.

I step out into the Museum, through the entry, and back into the Wastes. I don't look back. My heart is singing and I feel, somehow, that if I look back, I won't want to leave.

 

The trip back through the metro is uneventful, and the overside isn't much worse. I see a few raiders from a mile away, whooping and screaming as they kill a mole rat. Avoiding them is easy as pie. A small mole rat sniffs around another mile farther on, with its family watching over it protectively. I arrive at the gates of Megaton around eleven.

Most everyone should be either at the bar or asleep in their beds. Wouldn't be surprised if Jericho is down at Moriarty's saloon, drunk as a fish and hitting on Nova. Gob's probably watching them nervously, wiping down a glass; I imagine that Moriarty himself would be in the back counting his caps.

I won't bother them tonight. I know Gob will be thrilled to get Carol's letter, but I'm exhausted from the trek. My eyes feel dry and tired. I'm thinking about my cozy bed in my house on the hill when I see Jericho heading out.

“Hey, bitch,” he says.

“What's going on, asshole?” I reply, without missing a beat.

“Gonna look around outside, see if I can find something to kill,” he says.

“Mole rats some distance off. Nothing close that I saw.”

“Damn,” Jericho says. “You do anything fun out there? Where'd you go, anyway? Last night traders visited and we all did titty shots on Nova. You should'a been there.”

I roll my eyes. “ _Gross._ Nah, I was laid up for awhile.”

He nods and asks, “Get shot?” as if it was the most natural question in the world.

“Got shot _at,_ ” I say. “But no, it was ghouls that got me. Those nasty tall ones with the melting faces. Surprised by the pair of them in the metro.”

“Shit,” he says. “You should'a had me along, baby doll. I could'a taken care of you.”

“You, old man, are drunk,” I proclaim.

“So are you,” he retorts.

“Buzzed, not drunk.”

“What the hell's the difference?”

I sigh. “I'm going to bed, Jericho. I'll drink with you tomorrow night, I promise. After this week, I fully intend to spend all day at the bar.”

“Good,” he says. “See you around, bitch.”

“Good night, asshole.”

And I force myself to keep walking, my feet aching, and throw open my door.

“Good evening, madam,” Wadsworth says, turning to face me. I'm used to being around robots because of the one in the Vault, but I've always thought that they were kind of creepy. Never sleeping, never truly reactive; it's a little bit freaky to think that they're this smart, but that someone wrote all the code that they're running. Robots _act_ like they have personality, but it's just a series of numbers that somehow strings together to form this intricately complex creature that cleans my house for me.

Like I said: creepy.

I grumble and start shucking off my armor and gear. “Hey, Wads. Anyone stop by the house while I was away?”

“Lucas Simms. Walter.” I wait for him to continue with a list of names, but he stops there.

“That's it? Shit, seriously?”

“I'm afraid so, madam,” Wadsworth answers.

“I must be getting unpopular,” I say. _Or, maybe people are getting used to me being away all the time._ Megaton is the place I call home, but I'm barely ever here for long. I'd stay an even shorter amount of time if there wasn't a bar in town.

“I'm sure that is not the case, madam,” he says.

I grunt. “So, thanks for looking after the place. I'm going to bed.”

“Rest well, madam.”

I make my way up the stairs, and Wadsworth whirrs as he watches me, arms eternally twisting and waving. I grimace. If that thing ever goes rogue and shoots me in the back, I will be _so_ unsurprised.

 


	7. Friends

In the passing weeks, I spend my time exploring the northern parts of the metro, killing Talon mercs, and throwing back scotch at Moriarty's saloon. There's something nasty and bitter that's taken up residence inside of me, and it only seems to be satisfied with killing and drink.

Makes me even more angry to think about _why_ I'm feeling this way. I don't know why. Pissed that I can't find my father? That Moriarty won't stop being a dick to Nova and Gob? Or maybe I'm overthinking it and it's just that I'm a moody bitch and nothing else.

I'd like to keep it to myself, but given my personality when I'm drunk, it doesn't quite work that way.

“Gob,” I snarl, slamming my glass down on the bar. “What's wrong with this picture? Can you find the one damn thing wrong with this?”

Gob flinches and ducks back as if I'm going to hit him, then says, cautiously, “...your glass is empty.”

“Wow, what a fucking genius!” I spit. “ _Damn right it is._ Didn't I tell you to keep that from happening?”

“Yeah... asshole,” he mutters, and refills it.

The bar is loud tonight. Room's filled to capacity, and both Gob and Nova are working their asses off. Two caravans came through, eager for Megaton business, and now all the guards and traders are in here at once, demanding Gob's service left and right. Nova has been going up and down the stairs about once an hour, looking exhausted.

“Hey, rotter, back here!” someone shouts, and he hurries off to their table.

“Not being very nice to him, honey,” Nova says, leaning against the countertop. “You're a good girl, but a mean drunk.”

I growl into my scotch.

She runs a hand through her short hair and sighs.

I've been listening to the traders now for a while. Apparently since leaving the Vault, the area around Megaton has become much safer due to most of the nearby monsters and raiders being killed... which means more business for everyone. I hope that all these caps will make Moriarty less of a bastard.

“Hey, beautiful,” one of the guards says to Nova. His thumbs are hooked in his belt loops, emphasizing the bulge of his pants. “You ready for round two?”

“See me in an hour, big boy,” she purrs. “I'm on break right now.”

He grins, nods, and smacks her ass before returning to his seat.

“Jesus,” Nova mutters, looking tired again. I can see circles under her eyes. “Why'd both convoys have to come at once?”

There's another shouted demand for beer. Nova settles down on the barstool beside me. I'm still angry at nothing, but I do feel bad for her. Pretty sure she isn't a prostitute by choice. I've heard mutters about her debt to Moriarty, which I would do something about, except that Moriarty isn't the type of guy to let anything go once he has it. I think that having two slaves is more fun for him than any amount of caps.

Asshole. I hope that guy breaks a leg sometime. Better yet, his neck.

“Gob,” I say as he approaches, and the ghoul looks at me warily as he refills my glass yet again.

“How about you pour it yourself, like you usually do?” Nova asks sweetly. “Save him a little bit of time, hm?”

“Don't feel like it,” I growl. “It's his job anyway.”

“Thanks,” Gob says sarcastically. “You're a real great friend.”

Nova leans over, propping her boobs up on the bar. “Sweetie,” she pouts, “something's got you all hot and bothered lately. How about you tell me what it is? I can keep secrets _real_ well.”

I catch Gob staring at her cleavage and he immediately busies himself with grabbing a few more beers the moment he sees me looking.

 _Well._ I didn't know that ghouls could really... you know... feel much anything like that anymore. I guess a man is a man, even when burnt-up and mutated. Interesting that he would want Nova. Not to be mean or anything, but he's been there to see her go up the stairs with dozens of men. You'd think that'd be a turn-off.

_I wonder if Charon ever looks at anyone._

“Dammit,” I mutter. That's the last thing I need to be thinking about.

“Helena?” Nova says again, her voice still seductive.

I watch Gob deliver the tray of beers to one of the tables, amidst jeers and nasty comments. He cringes as a guy sticks out his foot in hopes of tripping him—fortunately he only stumbles and doesn't fall. He's too used to people giving him a hard time.

“Nova,” I say, “have you ever slept with Gob?”

Nova's just taken a sip of water and chokes at the abrupt question. I pat her back while she coughs, and croaks out, “What? With Gob? Well, he's sweet... and I think he might like to, it's just... well... I don't want to sound shallow or anything, I mean, I'm a whore, my standards aren't exactly high. But there are places even I won't go. Johnnies that are squishier than me are one of 'em.”

“Oh,” I say. “That's... a really nasty image and I never want to think of that again.”

“See?” Nova says. “I told you.”

I hesitate, then ask reluctantly, “Have you... uhm... ever been in love?”

“Woah, what's with this line of questioning?” Nova leans forward and grins, her eyes sparkling mischievously. “Why? You interested in Gob?”

“No!” I groan. “Of course not!”

“Hm, you don't have me convinced...” she says, giggling.

I roll my eyes. Well, at least this has livened up her night. She looks happier. If talking about this... this... thing, this messed-up, sick thing that's wrong with me—if that makes her happy, then I'll continue. Despite thinking that, my stomach churns. If I say it out loud, then it just confirms it's true, that I have weird feelings for a ghoul. Not love, of course, but that I... like him. In that _more than friends_ way. That at some point, down in those dark metro tunnels, I realized that he's more than just a man with the face of a monster.

Grudgingly, I confess, “I met someone.”

“Aha!” Nova claps her hands and jumps up. “I knew it! Gob! Hey, Gob! Get over here!”

I groan and sink down in embarrassment. _Nova, please, he doesn't need to hear this...!_

“What is it?” he asks, looking harried and concerned.

“Got a moment?”

“Uh... maybe.”

“Remember our bet? I win. I totally win.”

“Our bet?” Gob's eyes shift to me. “Oh. _Oh.”_

“Let's hear about him,” Nova insists. “What's he like? Is he handsome?”

“He's... tall,” I say, and with that admission my face turns beet-red. _God fucking dammit._ There's no turning back now.

Nova laughs delightedly again. “See? See?” she says, pointing at me. “Look at this! Our little hero's turning red! Oh, boy, you have it bad. You can't even _think_ about him without getting all frazzled!”

I press my hands against my cheeks. “Yeah, well...”

“What else?”

“He's a damn good shot,” I say. “Smart and fast. We worked together for a few days.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Oh my! You took someone out with you? Into the tunnels? He must be a real looker!”

I grimace. “It wasn't quite like that.”

“Sure, sure. You have any... _intimate moments_ yet?”

I squeeze my eyes shut at the painful memories. Me trying to pull him into bed. Getting caught staring at his arms. Straddling him when I was bandaging him up, which was the _worst_ one, because I was sober and my body was still reacting and left wanting. And then that stupid goodbye, when I embarrassed him in front of the entire town just because I wanted everyone to know that he cared enough to watch me leave.

“You might say so,” I admit. “Not very good ones, though.”

“Do you need me to teach you how to kiss?”

I flinch back. “No, thank you.”

Nova laughs. “So how far have you two gotten?”

“Uhm... I... I bandaged an injury for him... so... shirtless... and that's it.”

She chews her lip. “Uh-huh. So you're pissy because either he doesn't like you back, or he's one of those cold-hearted wastelander 'love em and leave em' types.”

“The former,” I say glumly. “There are some other issues too.”

“Mm. I may not be one for romance, but I know how to convince a man that I'm worth his time. I'll teach you my tricks... but not all of them.” She winks. “I need to save some to use on _you.”_

I roll my eyes and take one more sip of scotch. I'll need to be really, really drunk if I'm going to have this conversation with her.

“So does he know, or at least suspect, that you like him?”

“Don't think so. I keep telling him that I don't.”

“Helena!” Nova exclaims, smacking my arm. “Come on, you should know better than that! You're nineteen, not _nine!”_

Sullenly, I say, “He pisses me off. And he doesn't like me anyway.”

“So? Change your outfit! You don't need to be covered up to your neck, you know! Show a little skin, let your boobs hang out a little! God gave you those for a reason, you know!”

“I _don't_ think that's their primary purpose,” I say. “It's just a side effect of having a high body-fat percentage.”

“Quit changing the subject.”

Gob is still watching us. “Where did you meet him?”

I groan and cover my face. “You'll hate me if I tell you.”

“No I won't,” Gob says automatically.

“See?” Nova replies. “You've been treating him like shit for almost a month and he's still being nice to you. So repay the favor and dish it out!”

 _Last chance._ It'd be a shitty thing to do, but I could just refuse to stop talking about it. Forget all about it. Bury the secret deep down inside of myself and let myself have it be something I think about, unbidden, now and then.

And: “I met him in Underworld,” I say, resigned.

“Oh!” Nova grins conspiratorially. “So he's another wanderer like you, huh?”

“No, I-” I pinch the bridge of my nose and glare into my empty glass. “I mean I met him _in_ Underworld.”

“...wait, you...” Gob's mouth falls open. He glances around, and then leans in, whispering, “Someone like me?”

I hesitate, then nod, refusing to look at him.

“Are you serious?” Nova looks back and forth between us. “A _ghoul?”_

“Shh,” Gob urges. “If anyone hears you, they'll throw Helena out of town.”

“Don't be crazy,” Nova says, looking disturbed. “She's too valuable.”

I keep my eyes fixed on my empty glass.

Nova sighs, and puts an arm around my shoulders. “Don't be sad, honey. You're a good girl. Smart, talented, brave... you don't have to settle, you know.”

“I'm not settling!” I'm surprised by my own indignation, and I glance at Gob. If I'm right, if he really is interested in Nova, then that comment had to have hurt. But he just looks as forlorn as usual, so I can't tell if it's in response to her or if he's just reverting back to his standard expression.

“I... he pisses me off, goddammit, but I think I miss him.” I have to bite my lip to stop myself from saying anything more. My hands are shaking. I shouldn't feel this way, it's wrong, it's...

“Then what are you doing here?” Nova asks.

“Huh?” I'm caught off-guard enough that I look up at her. Is she serious? It doesn't look like she's making fun of me...

“You're not a kid,” Nova says. “Well, ya sort of are, but you're old enough to make your own damn choices. Besides, you're not like the rest of us, honey. You're into adventure and killing and all that stuff. If that adventure takes you to places that no one else wants to go, well, fine.” She laughs, and then winks at me. “You'll just have to tell me how it feels.”

Gob blushes and starts scrubbing at a glass violently with his dishrag. Damn, how had I not noticed this before? Was I really so unobservant? Or was it just that I had no idea that ghouls could still get feelings like that?

“So go back to him,” Nova says. “And I don't want you to come back until you're satisfied. So if one time with the guy isn't enough, then bring him back with you.”

I roll my eyes and Gob turns an even darker red. “Yeah, like I'd be able to take him with... me...” I slow down suddenly, my brain churning. What was that again? If I weren't so drunk, I might be able to remember-

I stand. _The contract!_ Hadn't Ahzrukhal said something about a contract? He calls Charon his employee, and Charon sees himself that way too, but isn't he just a slave? He obeys anyone with his contract, right?

I swallow hard. I don't know if I have the balls to do that. I mean, asking to _buy_ the man I have some stupid, teenage crush on? A ghoul, no less, who glares at me anytime I go near him? I doubt that Ahzrukhal would be very impressed if I tried to return him if it didn't work out. It's not like he's actual merchandise. And so if I were stuck with him and tried to start something up, and he wasn't interested, wouldn't that make it so much worse? Then he'd be uninterested but he'd _know_ that I'm a sick enough person to want him even when I'm not drunk.

_Ah._

“I can't,” I say firmly. “I'm drunk and I'm not capable of thinking straight.”

Gob almost falls over laughing. “Hey, smoothskin, that's the first time I've ever heard you say _that!”_

“Yeah, come on. If you can recite the first ten digits of pi after a bottle of scotch, I think you're capable of making these kinds of decisions after two bottles,” Nova says.

“I also try to sleep with Jericho, though,” I say.

“Well, you do have a point,” Gob replies.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” Nova says. “That was one of them. Have a little more confidence in yourself, huh? Wanna borrow one of my shirts?”

I glance down at her full cleavage, shiny with sweat from the bar. “Jesus. I don't have that kind of a rack, Nova.”

Without warning she reaches out and feels me up. I gape while the drunken traders and guards all whoop at us. “Nova!”

“You're fine,” she assures me. “Wrong bra is all.”

I'm impressed despite myself. “You could tell even through my armor?”

“I'm an expert, hon,” she says with devious smile. “You need to stop picking up that pre-War shit you find in abandoned houses. The elastic in those are shot and they're all full of holes. Listen, you're about my size, I'll give you something to borrow. And you go back down to Underworld and show your stuff.”

“Tonight,” I say in disbelief.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “You pull all-nighters constantly. With how much you're doubting yourself, you need to do it _tonight,_ while you're convinced and still very drunk.”

I have to laugh at her audacity.

“Let's go,” Nova pleads, and grabs my hands. “I'll find something really sexy for you, and I'll talk it over with you while we pick things out. I'll come up with a game plan that's certain to work on _any_ man, no matter how old or smelly or radioactive he might be. It'll be fun. Please?”

“Why are you doing this?” I ask, as I stand up.

“I just want you to be happy,” she says simply.

And I can't argue with that. I want Nova to be happy too.

For the first time in my life, I let her take me upstairs.

 

My heart is pounding. Am I really doing this? I'm really going to go down to Underworld to see him in just a few hours? Shit, I'm so not ready for this.

I'm standing in Moriarty's at five in the morning, having reluctantly shed my current clothes in exchange for my armored leggings, a black leather jacket, and Nova's boldest red silk bra with black lace. She insisted that I keep it 'unzipped but not so far that people will see your saggy stomach', so it's open down to the middle of my ribcage and fastened with a safety pin on the inside so that it won't slip. I've got on matching panties that she swears she's barely worn, to which I retorted, _as if he's going to see them anyway!_ Nova says that it's a requirement as a part of being 'raider chic'.

My M1 Garand is slung over my back and I have both pistols strapped to my hips, but I've also got a thirty-pound minigun and a fifty-pound bucket of ammo.

“Hey there, little lady,” one the traders says, looking up from his breakfast. Guess he thinks I'm the day shift prostitute or something. “Lovely sight to start the day, eh, boys?”

I raise an eyebrow and drop the minigun onto the table. Their bowls clatter and a guard swears as he nearly drops his oatmeal onto himself.

“Fuck! What the hell do you want?”

I'm drunk off my ass. I'm probably going to make stupid choices. But if nothing else, it gives me the courage to say, “Two thousand caps.”

“What?” the trader says, lowering his spoon.

“For this shit,” I say, lifting the minigun and dropping it again for good measure, “and this shit,” I finish, pointing to the bullets.

They glance at each other.

“The gun's worth more than a thousand, of course,” I say. “And so does the ammo, all together. If you're still bitching about the price I'll throw in a pistol.”

He looks me up and down. “Hey, you're that girl who saved Bigtown, aren't you?”

“Mm.”

“You giving up the dream? Retiring?”

“Hell no. Just in need of some caps.”

He nods, then says, “Throw in both pistols and the ammo, and it's a deal.”

 _Motherfucking cheapskate,_ I growl to myself, but I say yes and toss them on the pile.

 

A stranger exits Museum metro gates, shutting them firmly behind her. Myself, the 'new and improved' Helena. Just as angry, just as drunk, but hella confident and with a badass top. I feel a lot weaker without my two pistols, but that's okay. With luck I'll be leaving with a man to watch my back and make up for my lacking equipment.

The ghoul smoking a cigarette next to the Museum blows out a long stream of smoke and says, “Woah.”

“Damn straight,” I agree. “What do you think?”

“Looks like you're trying to convince us you really are a smoothskin,” she says, eyeing me. “Believe me, we know. Don't have to show us.”

I cross my arms. “You saying it looks bad? My friend picked this out.”

Willow takes another long drag on her cigarette. “Nah. It's hot. The women will whisper and bitch about it, but the boys will be givin' you a lot of lovin'. Don't know if that's what you want, a bunch of ghouls crowding around to get a look. Been a long time since we got a cute lady like you here.”

“Well, I was here before without that happening.”

“Mm, yeah, drunk, scowling, and covered from head to toe.” She appraises me. “Still drunk and scowling, I see, but don't worry, the boys won't notice that.”

“Good,” I say. “I'm here to negotiate. Less they can think, the better.”

She grins. “Getting your reward for clearing out the metro?”

“You bet.”

“Get in there, then.”

New Helena obliges.

Damn, there's something to be said for this prostitute-bra. Makes me want to swing my hips when I walk. I'm amazed by the effect it has on my boobs—each time I look down, they're bouncy and glistening. Not used to it. I went straight from the Vault jumpsuit to full leather coverage.

 _Deep breath, and..._ I shove open the double doors in the skull's mouth, and take another moment to readjust myself. _No going back now._

Willow was right. I get stares the instant I step inside, from both men and women. Someone coughs and looks away, and I hear a few whispers.

“Think you're missing a layer!” a female ghoul shouts, and I flip her off. _Calm down, bitch, I'm not here for your man._

My eyes fix on the door on the left side balcony, and my heart pounds harder and harder. The Ninth Circle. _No, I'm here for that callous, sarcastic jackass. The one who pisses me off more than anyone else in the world._

_Let's hope this isn't a mistake._

The bar's got a few ghouls in it, most of them high on jet, although there's a few drinkers, which is enough for there to be some light chatter, audible over the radio. That tall ghoul in the darkest corner of the bar stares at me with his arms crossed, and I afford him a single, cool glance. He returns it without a word.

I stalk over to the counter, where Ahzrukhal's eyes widen as I approach, and slam my palm down on the bar.

I lean in forward, drill him with my meanest look, and say, “I want Charon's contract. Name your price.”

 


	8. Bang

_I want Charon's contract. Name your price._

The words hang heavy in the air between us. I can feel ghouls staring. My back prickles with sweat. Did Charon hear what I said? What's he thinking?

Ahzrukhal blinks. “Fond of him, are you?”

“Yeah,” I say without hesitation. “He's good at killing and doesn't cry like a little _bitch.”_

The bartender scratches his chin. I don't think he's used to this sort of bluntness. “True, he is. That's why I like keeping him here. You want him that bad, he's going to be expensive.”

“That's what I figured.”

There's a long, tense pause.

“Five thousand caps.”

I let out a long sigh. “Are you kidding? One ghoul's contract is worth more than ten slaves?”

“As harsh as it may seem? Yes and no. I set the price higher than anyone's willing to pay on purpose,” he says, appraising me. “I don't think you even have that many caps.”

I grit my teeth. “This is bullshit.”

“Listen, smoothskin,” he says. “Whine about it all you want. I'm not changing my mind.”

I sit down at the bar, ignoring the rage bubbling underneath my skin. If I stay standing any longer, I'll be tempted to break his nose. I didn't walk all this way, go through all this 'emotion' shit just to deal with this cheapskate.

“You know what my employee is capable of?” he asks, his eyes cold. “You really want to know what he can do, what he _has_ done?”

I stare him down.

“Torture, murder, and worse. You name it, he's done it. He's a monster with no moral compass. That's why he's in my employ. If I asked him to kill you right now, he'd do it without flinching.” Ahzrukhal studies me. “You understand me? Even though you saved his life and nearly sacrificed your sanity for him, he'd have no regrets. And he would forget you as if you'd never even existed. That's the kind of man he is.”

“You're the one who orders him to do that stuff,” I point out, and he smiles nastily.

“I am,” he agrees. “Fact still remains that he doesn't care. Which leads me to my second point. If I sold his contract to you, that'd just be unleashing that monster out into the world again. Unlike me, young lady, you've got a limited lifespan. What's going to happen to Charon when you die? The contract compels him to search out a new owner and be bound to the first person to claim him. You know the kind of sick people that's going to attract?”

“People like you?” I guess.

“Exactly. Except, I run a bar, and not a brothel or a gang or a town or even a city. The more powerful his employer is, the more power he will have too, and access to more and more victims.”

“Jesus Christ, he's a ghoul, not an atom bomb.”

“Third,” he says, leering at me, “and I'll be surprised if you still want him after hearing this one. Obviously he's valuable. Unfortunately, the group of people who brainwashed him kept the contracts in some sort of facility or something, because they never wrote in a clause about what happens if someone steals the contract. That means, smoothskin, once you go out with your new pet? You'll have half the wasteland after your head.”

“Fuck you, they already are.” Like anyone I actually like would be trying to kill me. It would still be those Talon merc assholes, Muties, slavers, anyone who's shitty enough to want to capitalize on another person's death. “Except I'll have Charon to protect me.”

“And? If they steal the contract first, claim him, and order him to kill you? You don't think that possibility is at all distressing?”

“I'll think of something,” I growl.

“Oh, will you?” Ahzrukhal smirks. “When will that be? Before or after you come up with five thousand caps?”

I stand up again, unable to sit while my blood's running so hot. “Come on! I cleared out the metro tunnels for you! There's got to be some other kind of dirty work you need done, something worth five thousand caps to you.”

He's still grinning at me, that aggravating smugness still fixed on his face, his cold eyes gleeful. “Well, now that you say so, I think I might be able to find something...”

“Spit it out, shuffler, I know you've got something in mind.”

“There _is_ one thing that you could do. Worth five thousand caps to me, of course. Maybe a bit more. I believe when we first met, dear young Gaja mentioned Carol's Place across the hall?”

“Yeah, she did. Your competition, right? You want me to put them out of business or something?” Geez, I don't know if I could do that. Carol is Gob's mom, and Greta is her lover. I like Carol too much to want to do something like that.

“Yes,” Ahzrukhal says, confirming my suspicions. “Put them out of business... _permanently.”_

I don't say anything, just gesture for him to continue.

“If you have a problem with that, then just Greta will do. Kill her, and I stand to gain a lot of business. I don't care how, just make it quiet. Do it, and you can have Charon's contract.”

“What, Charon's too scared or something?” I challenge. “What kind of bullshit is this?”

“Loyal employee that he is, Charon would do it without question if I asked him to. However, the entire town would come down on me for it,” he explains. It's chilling just how calm he is. “Greta is quite popular around here. If Charon is the one who kills her, everyone will know that it was me who ordered Greta's death. I need Charon clearly visible and in public when Greta dies, so that I can fairly claim ignorance of the situation.”

I clench my fists, then relax myself slowly. _I've killed a lot of people before. The guards who tried to kill me as I left the Vault. And those dozens of mercs and raiders._ But... Greta? I think about what Carol might look when she finds out Greta is dead, and as much as I want Charon essentially for free, I shake my head. “I want nothing to do with this.”

“No stomach for hard work, eh? No matter. If you don't want to do the job, then come up with the cash. Otherwise, I'll just hang on to this contract.”

“So,” I say, “You'll definitely give me that contract if I can give you five thousand caps?”

He gives me another nasty smile, and I have no doubt that he's scheming something else. “Of course.”

So I raise myself up to my full height, a grand total of five feet and ten inches, stare him down, and throw my entire bag on the bar. “Five thousand caps, plus some. You can keep the change. Now hand over the contract.”

Ahzrukhal blanches. _Hah! Serves you right, bitch. Now_ that's _called playing hardball._ Worried that something like this might happen, I'd taken all of my caps and sold a bunch of shit to get some extra, just in case. I've barely got over five thousand--that's enough to buy a house in Megaton. The bartender recovers quickly though, and only looks angry. Is now the moment when he's going to get Charon to fight me or kick me out?

But he surprises me, only saying, “You don't know what you're trying to buy.”

“Uh, a kickass fighter?”

He looks tired, suddenly, but there's still an awful lot of irritation in his voice when he says, “I'll sell you the contract. You've proven to me that you want it badly enough. For what ends or purposes, I don't care.

“But know this: Charon is capable of breaking the contract.”

I frown. “What are you talking about?”

“He's a liar,” Ahzrukhal says. “I don't know how it's happened, but over the course of two hundred years, his conditioning is wearing off. That, or he was never fully brainwashed completely from the very beginning. I am not sure which one would be worse.”

“What did he lie about?” I ask, curious.

“About protecting his employer. You see, I never paid anyone for Charon. He came to me himself. I was the person who decided to claim him.”

“So, his last contract-owner...”

“Yes. He killed him.”

 

He's standing in the corner, unassailable, his eyes constantly shifting, tracking the movements of every person in the room. He's darkness and leather and alien aloofness. Charon.

He couldn't be that kind of person, could he? So conniving, so merciless?

I don't know. But I'm determined on what I want. Nova wants me to take the chance, and if someone so embittered by life is able to see hope in this sort of situation, then I'm going to go for it.

Besides, don't I drink so that I can make choices without thinking, and deal with the results later?

Ahzrukhal gives me a long, hard look, and then pulls a yellowed envelope out of his breast pocket. “Just as long as you know what you're getting into. You can never fully trust him. Charon is a loaded gun.”

I snatch the contract away, feeling a possessive thrill course through my body. _He's mine!_

Azzie's still talking. “I wouldn't even think of selling him to you if you hadn't cleared the metro. But hopefully you're smart enough to handle him.”

I unfold the series of pages inside. “Damn. These come this way?” The set of papers is slashed nearly in two, with a dark brown stain spreading across nearly every page. The writing is barely legible. Looks like Ahzrukhal was telling the truth about owners getting killed for this contract.

“Mm,” Ahzrukhal says. “Although it was a lot messier when I received it.”

I grimace. If that's the case, then... Charon was the one who stabbed his master to death?

“No returns,” Ahzrukhal says, confirming my fears. “I'll be spending this money on hiring someone less dangerous.”

“Good luck,” I say, and refold the paper. “Hey, those people who brainwashed him... you have any info on those guys?”

He shakes his head. “North Dakota. That's all I know. There was some sort of pre-War military project going on there.”

“Huh,” I say. Well, that's also another confirmation—Charon is, as I suspected, pre-War, which makes him over two hundred years older than myself. _God fucking dammit._ That's a lot worse of an age difference between Jericho and I. “Thanks anyway.”

“You're welcome, smoothskin,” he says. “I just hope you don't regret it. I'll give you the pleasure of telling him yourself.”

 

Charon's eyes flick towards me when I take a step towards him, and I can't hold back a slightly maniacal grin. He looks almost exasperated. “What is it now?”

“Oho, you can't tell me you weren't listening to Azzie and I talking over there?” I drawl.

“Unfortunately, I have been tasked with watching the bar and preventing theft, which means that I am unable to treasure your every word,” he says, sarcasm dripping from every word. “So, no. Although I did see that you two appeared to be having a heated discussion. Since you are still alive, it looks as though you prevailed in whatever you were trying to weasel out of him.”

I lean in, giggling, and tease, “You wanna take a look?”

He looks mildly nauseated. “Whatever it is, it's none of my business.”

“Oh, but yes it is,” I say evilly, and take another step closer. I hold out the contract and wait for it to register. “You see, you belong to me now.”

There's a long moment and his eyes narrow as he processes what I've just said. Finally, he says, “I belong to no one. If you are my new employer, then I will serve you. But first, I must take care of something. Wait here.”

Giddy, I turn as he pushes off the wall and stalks away. I guess he has stuff he needs to get? I can't imagine that after god knows how many years of living in Underworld, he'd collect a few earthly possessions, even as a slave-

He stops right at the bar, where Azzie is just starting to step around the corner. “Ahzrukhal. I am told that I am no longer in your service.”

“That's right, Charon. Have you come to say goodbye?” he asks tauntingly.

Oh, I see. So he didn't believe me, or does he really just-

“Yes,” Charon answers, and faster than I can even scream, he pulls the shotgun from his shoulder and fires a round right into the center of Ahzrukhal's forehead.

 

I think it's kind of ironic, really, that I'm only able to find my voice after ghouls have erupted in screams of horror; “Charon just killed Ahzrukhal!”; and yet I can't find anything to say. My breath is coming in hard gasps. _He killed my friend!_ My slave isn't paying any attention to me and seems quite unconcerned by the chaos around him. He looks down at Ahzrukhal's body for a while, the blood and brains and skull splattered all across the wallpaper, on the floor, on the bar; he seems almost pensive. And then he presses the barrel of his gun against the bartender's stomach and fires a second time.

For what? Good measure? As if getting his brains exploded all over the room wouldn't kill him?

Charon settles his shotgun back over his shoulders and turns towards me, as calm as ever.

And I look up into those ice-cold eyes, my body quivering, and my heart pounds harder and harder. The room around me blurs, and it's only the two of us, a bonded pair, a changed relationship. I hold the end of his leash and Charon, this monster, is mine to command.

But the worst part? After all this adrenaline and fear jolting through my system?

I've suddenly become very, very sober.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! ^^
> 
> I'm really grateful for all of the wonderful comments and kudos! It makes my day every time I get a new comment. Also, this is the end of Part 1, but the story doesn't stop here! Please check back tomorrow for the first chapter of Part 2, "Justice and Other Deadly Sins"! Part 2 has everything you've been waiting for--smut, violence, and more alcohol!
> 
> I hope to see you there!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and I hope you liked it! Please comment and tell me what you think. Be gentle, it's my first time~ ^///^


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